


When Are We Not Dreaming

by cynosure_phrases



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Demon!Baz, Demons, Dreams vs. Reality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mythology - Freeform, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Pets, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 07:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: This is the tale of two lovers, existings in two worlds and meeting only in their slumber. When dawn breaks, away the sun leaves the moon to rest and sulk and await the return of his starshine. When the day trickles away, the warrior of the land returns to the darkness to only find warmth. One a war machine built to slaughter, and one a dark creature built to survive, and both exist to kill. Bloodshed shall end when lovers find paths within each other.-Simon Snow is the greatest warrior of his time and he’s sent off to slay the Bloodtaker, a demon who has been terrorizing the lands. He falls in love with him instead, and falls out of himself in the process.





	When Are We Not Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> quick thank you to my betas because wow! i'm super thankful for them! their tumblr @s are ravenclawbaz, jessethejoyful, wisest-girl, and thedrag0nqueen.
> 
> a warning about the suicide attempt: it's sort of... romeo and juliet-esque. it's not incredibly graphic, but to give a warning of placement, it's towards the very end (roughly the last 1,000 words).

A man steadily approaches a broad opening, fingertips dragging against the crumbling stone walls surrounding the village. They seem to deteriorate at just a glance, raising high and towering as ghosts hiding away an abandoned land, splattered with dried blood and fresh fear of a village now gone.

 

The bravest warrior, from water-tip to water-tip of England, Simon Snow, stares at the barren wasteland of a previous town, brain buzzing with energy, with ability, with skill to be the one man to finally defeat the Great Bloodtaker. There’s only rumors of his true form, yet when he comes to the mortal realm, he’s bursting with charm; a dark man, tall of stature, with a gentle voice, upturned lips, and a handsome face.

 

Soft-spoken. Ruthless.

 

A demon.

 

A demon walking the land. A demon who’s said to be akin to vampires. If he pleases, he’ll suck the life from your neck, provoked only by a broken deal. He uses favors as an exchange of currency, posing as a poor man. Only a true fool would resist the pleas of the attractive trickster, one that asks for home, for food, for care. The figure then makes deals around, promising good health for a dying man’s wife if he can provide anything of his wishes. All fall for his tricks, all being unable to provide the small things he wishes (a single red shoe, a young pheasant hunted by hand, all differing according to the victim). He sends a curse upon them, continuing to each family until the final night of bloodshed and destruction. The night he attacks.

 

And now stands Simon Snow, the one chosen to take down the Bloodtaker, to end his path of destruction and blood consummation of the great people of the lands. He takes in the aftermath, hand clutching the hilt of his sword while utterly unsure of what he’ll face.

 

But alas, as he descends into the crumbling town, he faces nothing in the empty homes and discarded shops. All but rotting food and a pet or two, left untouched and crying for help, have been emptied out. Snow lets the animals smell him. He has nothing to offer but small pieces of bread, and even that runs short too quickly.

 

The bodies are gone, most likely dragged off somewhere to be burnt to hide the evidence of bloodless carcasses, but it was too late. The word spread far and wide of another town culled by the cannibalistic beast.

 

It has been occurring far too often, and for far too long. It’s time for this to end.

 

It’s the time that Snow has been trained for.

 

With every clash of the blade, with every strike in the heart of his enemy and cry into battle, he grew stronger and more capable. With every training day, The Grand Mage tutting aside at every sloppy movement Snow makes and reminding him countlessly that he was chosen for a reason, and the reason was not to make a fool of him and his country.

 

He was chosen because he’s magic with a sword; his energy explodes out of him. He’s a killing machine, stronger than the largest brigade threatening the lands. Snow’s choosing was one of tradition, one passed from the previous Grand Mage--the one who found him, who built him to become what he is. Brave. An honor to look upon. The country’s unbeatable weapon.

 

Despite his reputation, Snow hasn’t completely proven himself without a final challenge.

 

His challenge is proving himself absolutely, once and for all, as the greatest warrior to come to man. The destroyer of all creatures, human or beyond.

 

That could be proven, of course, if the demon would step out of his shadow.

 

Which does not happen. At least, not within his daylight hours of searching. This prompts Snow to set up camp, laying in an abandoned bed in an abandoned house. Drinking ale until he sends his lone body spinning into a spiral of sleep, waking only in the depths of a pit of his mind.

 

Only his mind doesn’t exist. Purgatory only holds enough, and not one's’ mind.

 

Yet there stands Snow, clamored in armor and sword in hand, in a strange place with only one staircase as an exit, leading him into an unsure descent.

 

With nowhere else to go but down, Snow goes. Sinking into the world, into the depths, into the new land he’s unsure of. Steps taking him deeper and deeper. It’s burning hot, as if flames licked at the wall from behind the thick stone.

 

Hotter and hotter, into the lair of the Bloodtaker.

 

As Snow’s decline continues, the walls slowly compress, pressure squeezing the air out of the man’s lungs as the world reeks of fire and blood.

 

Then, as if someone flipped a lever, it’s clear. Open.

 

A long hallway to an open room, flames crackling beyond his sight.

 

And there, Snow finds the Bloodtaker, lounging in his seat and swirling a glass of something unknown, something dark. The creature sips it slowly, watching the gold speckled man enter his realm. His piercing eyes following his every move, like a hunter watching its prey. Yet, he doesn’t advance towards him. Not even as Snow draws his sword, hand shaking in the slightest. Snow feels…  _ scared? _

 

“O-O’ great Bloodtaker,” he begins, the metal of his suit clattering the slightest against itself. “I’ve come to destroy wha-what’s destroyed so much… else…” he trails, watching the great beast rise to his feet and approach Snow steadily.

 

Assumedly, this is his true form, which is somehow grander than what the stories have told. He seems to have some of the attributes that the tales tell, but with more embellishments; pitch black hands, razor sharp claws, pointed teeth and curling horns. He stands at possibly a foot taller than Snow, rising to his feet with impeccable grace, silken robes following in swirls as he steps forward. Pause. Another step, reaching closer and closer to the glowing man of maybe 19 years of age, face relaxed and eyes traveling over the smaller figure before him.

 

Snow freezes, feet moulding to the ground beneath him as he gapes up at the human-like creature. His skin is much richer in person; like he was sculpted by the gods with river clay and given gemstones for eyes.

 

He looks like he was built for sin.

 

By the way Snow reacts, he feels as though the Great Bloodtaker has casted his will onto him. The mortal’s breath catches in his throat as the creature’s hand rises and levitates above the long line of tawny neck, staying as an untouched claw under the jaw of the man.

 

“You’ve come to bring  _ what _ upon me, exactly?” he coos, velvety voice twisting Snow’s insides. “You think you can defeat  _ me _ , mortal?”

 

Snow’s chin lifts further, breath trying to scratch out in huffs. “Y-yes,” he manages out, eyes staring directly into the creature’s leveled gaze and sputtering out breaths as the Bloodtaker drops his hand to his side, stepping back swiftly and meeting both clawed fingers in front of him in a clasp. The creature’s mouth draws out into a smirk, watching the golden boy scramble to a fighting stance. “I’ve been sent to-to t-take your l-life…”

 

The Bloodtaker drags his tongue slowly against his top lip, chin tilted up as he stares down at Snow, lips tweaked into a smirk. “Oh you can’t possibly do that, can you? Not with such a simple blade?”

 

Snow advances in the slightest, hand trembling. He’s not quite sure he  _ exactly _ can. “I can, I can,  _ I can. _ ” He has to. He can’t return to his homelands without the head of the beast, but yet, his stance falters, limbs nearly giving. He’s weak to whatever curse the demon cast upon him, giving in to his gaze as the monster grins.

 

“Oh, but you can’t,” he breathes, stepping back forward as Snow drops his blade, leaving it to clatter against the ground. The Bloodtaker’s hand reaches forward to Snow’s face, nails subtly dragging against the underside of the human’s chin. “Why don’t you stay, oh brave warrior, and keep my lonesome self some company? I’ll feed you for your time, and you can try to defeat me tomorrow.”

 

Snow crumbles like the gates of the town, head shaking  _ yes _ as his feet tumble forward. His eyes drift around the room for the first time, absorbing his surroundings. Although he could have sworn that it was empty except the throne, it now has a large dining table, filled to the brim with various foods and drinks, causing Snow’s stomach to growl at the sight.

 

He drags himself there, immediately beginning to stuff his mouth with whatever he can get his hands on. It dawns on him, half a turkey leg down his throat, that the creature could have easily poisoned his food in attempts to kill him. It’d be so simple, and there he sits, across the long end of the table as he swirls his wineglass slowly, eyeing him carefully through long sips.

 

Yet Snow doesn’t stop. After all, he’s eaten enough for two regular meals anyway, and he’s going on his third, ravenously hungry from his travels, both alive and in his current realm. As he exists, he’s starved. He stuffs himself further until he can barely manage another bite, food smeared across his face and dripping off his chin as he chugs down ale and  _ clean water _ , eyes closing and hands trembling as he gulps.

 

And the beast just stays, eyes locked on the mortal’s face.

 

One would expect the beast to attack, as he’s fattening up the merely muscle and bone fighter, but instead he admires. He stays, watching his curls bob too and fro and catching the eyes of the man on occasion, giving him a long, satisfied stare. Even as he finishes eating, raising to his feet with a gentle grunt, the creature gives him a once over. “You are free to stay, Great Warrior,” the demon offers, gesturing over his lair.

 

“It’s Snow,” he states clear as day, eyes flicking over the creature. “Simon Snow, The Mage of Warriors.”

 

A curt snort comes from the demon, swirling his blood-thick drink. “As if you hold any power above me,” he purrs, licking his lips once again before waving a hand to himself. “Pitch. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is the name my human form takes upon.”

 

Snow, with raising brows, watches him with curiosity. “Such a bold name for one to pose as a beggar, no?”

 

“Such a bold question to ask a creature that could kill you so quickly.”

 

“I don’t believe you’ll kill me after you’ve fed me.”

 

The creature, or so as he calls himself Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, sneers at the mere mortal before sipping from his glass. “I like to play with my food.”

 

Snow shifts his weight again, this time in the slightest.  _ Food _ . “Do the words have any significance?” he queries, stepping over to the throne and sprawling himself over the grand chair.

 

Bold and idiotic, this brave man, and why the creature hasn’t killed him yet is the mystery for the ages.

 

As he sits, untouched by the darkest creature of the land as he disrespects his power, he continues to challenge him, to question him, to dig deeper into the mind of the being.

 

“My name?” Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch mocks. “I… it quite fits me. I’m quite handsome, and a handsome face requires a handsome name?”

 

“Such as Basilton?”

 

“ _ Yes _ .”

 

Snow smiles in the slightest. “I quite like that part.  _ Basilton _ .” He draws it out, head resting back against the cushioned side. “Basil? Bazzz?”

 

“Baz is quite a crude bastardization of the name...”

 

“Exactly,” Snow grins. “ _ Baz _ . A tad whimsical.”

 

“I don’t think I agree that it would be fitting.”

 

“I believe so.”

 

_ Baz _ cocks a brow, sipping his wine (thickened to look like blood for the dramatics) and rolling his eyes for the effect. “You dare taunt a demon?”

 

“I dare taunt a demon who won’t kill me.”

 

“I see why you have no further title than Mage of Warriors.”

 

Snow throws a mean look, but it doesn’t stick.

 

“Alas, The Warrior is speechless.”

 

The golden man watches him and slowly spreads across the chair even further, making a point of the demon’s (frankly inexplicable) lack of punishment for disrespect. Baz remains in his seat adjacent to Snow’s, though, enjoying the mortal for all he’s worth, for he’s never had a moment to truly enjoy something so beautiful in his long lifetime, and he’s not quite sure he’ll be able to again.

 

Fate is so sick and twisted, even for the darkest of creatures. To live without a love, to exist without simple joys is a robbery of a life at all. So, it should be drunk in; sipped slowly and with caution, but finished to fill. To live a short life, one full of true existence is preferable to a never-ending life without such care.

 

A life known by the striking soldier with rich honeycomb skin, speckled like a hen’s egg and bronze licks of hair curling at every odd and end. He’s a sight to drink in, a sight that Baz doesn’t quite want to take in steadily, but instead he wishes to have him all to himself for now, and for the rest of time.

 

Such fate isn’t one that would be so kindly graced upon a killer like himself, but wishes can be dreams and dreams can be wishes.

 

And thus stands their bickering interactions, a back and forth of questions, such as Snow asking why he chose such a lair as his and Baz simply answers “It doesn’t beg the question whether or not he’s genuinely dark”, which was satisfying enough for the mortal, but not enough, as he asks further questions of how he came to be a demon, why he attacks such villages, and whether or not he takes the effort to make his hair fall in a careful way. The personal grooming questions were a tad odd, but somewhat reasonable, given the humanoid’s attention to detail in his appearance. All questions are ones that other creatures would slash the throat of the man after he dares speak, but Baz simply listens, giving snarky answers and snide comments, all the while a small smile trying to push through his cheeks. He takes notice as Snow starts to yawn, struggling to keep a conversation while his eyes grow heavy.

 

“Tomorrow, then,” he says, eyes drifting up to meet Baz’s. “Tomorrow, I’ll kill you.”

 

“Tomorrow it is.”

 

_ Tomorrow it is. _ It echoes through Snow’s brain as he rattles awake, laying among the sheets of an abandoned bed in the emptied town.

 

While it was definitely a dream, Snow feels the residual effects of the time he’d spent. Especially the feeling of still being quite full from the feast presented to him, and that tickle in his stomach from the exposure to the handsome beast.

 

Overall, it must’ve been more than a dream, but somewhat less than reality, for he’s awake in his own world. And he now figures that no matter what world he is in, he doesn’t hold the head of the Bloodtaker (or Baz, as he now knows him), as he knows he must in order to return to The Mage. The sanctuary he now lives in can only last as long as he makes it, therefore  _ something _ must be done.

 

And such something begins with gathering wood from the town, building a fire for cooking, and taking his time to hunt in the nearby land, securing a large enough rabbit and finding enough crops left behind to brew a stew for himself.

 

He makes himself friendly with the abandoned pets, bringing them a mouse and a squirrel from his hunt. They repay him in loyalty.

 

He names the dog Penelope and the kitten Agatha, reminiscent of his life at home.

 

The not-so-welcoming land he somewhat wishes to return to. The land where he’s betrothed to a lovely lady that he’s unsure of taking the hand of marriage from. The land where he cannot meet his closest friend’s eyes, for she’s whipped for speaking to such a class above her without referring to him as “sir”.

 

A land so differing to the one he visited once in his dreamy haze; in such a land, he felt as if he could exist infinitely, with the crackle of the earth beneath him and the shift of the life above. Warm. It was warm. It was uncomfortably warm, yet so chilling to be inside of. A world that was desperately unlike his own, but still beckons him to return.

 

So return he will, following his quickly consumed rabbit stew and swigs of his ale. He drifts back into slumber, and back into the Purgatorial floor.

 

And thus begins his decline.

 

This descent doesn’t quite hold the same energy; instead, it flows with him, his mind taking him with ease through the still-tight passage ways, showing up in the open room as he had the night before, and finding the creature sitting at his throne. This time, the open space takes a differing appearance. One of a house, including a bed space.

 

A place of living. (Whether it is for the creature or the warrior is unclear.)

 

“I’ve come once more to take your life,” Snow says, a twinge more confident. The cockiness only drops when he sees Baz smile wickedly.

 

“And with blade still too weak? Come now, Warrior, and feast upon my offerings.”

 

“I…” he begins, eyes drifting towards the table. Surely enough, it’s newly filled and overflowing with foods, all to the desires of Snow. “N-No. I must destroy you.”

 

Baz turns his lips up into a smile, the foot swung over the armrest swaying slightly as he shrugs. “Try then. Pierce your blade into my hide and see how far it’ll stab. The depth won’t exceed that of a fingernail.”

 

Snow shakes his head. “No. You must lie.”

 

“Then try?”

He begins to. He charges, reaching right before the throne and being hit with a force that stops him, makes his feet stumble ahead but arm lower and drop the sword with a clatter to the ground. A force of energy that doesn’t wish for him to continue. He groans, muscles twitching as he stands before him. “What spell has been cast upon me?”

 

“None,” the demon purrs as he grins up at him. “The spell of the free-will of man. You choose not to stab me.”

 

“That cannot be true,” he grunts, stepping away from him. “I wish to end you.”

 

Baz cocks a brow, lifting his chin at the mortal. “I doubt so.” His smile parts as he licks his lips before he drags out his following words. “Please, indulge yourself.”

 

Snow’s mouth opens to protest his offerings, but the smells wafting over seduce him further than an argument, and as before he finds himself filling his cheeks and stomach with foods greater and more plentiful than he’s ever seen before. Roasted ducks and stuffed mushrooms filled with aromatic rice. Braised beef rounds. Puddings drenched swirling gravies. Vegetables unfound in surrounding areas, delicacies from main-lands and far off journeys. It’s more delicious and decadent than a typical being could even fathom.

 

And so stuffs Snow, barely taking a moment to appreciate it. He quite often eats like it’s his last meal, and if the demon gets to him first, it may very well be.

 

But, as the night previous, the demon leaves him to feast, his eyes following the man with curiosity.

 

To continue such charade for as long as he wishes is a challenge for Baz in the least. To lure the man back to his world will be the obstacle, but he’ll grant him whatever he wants with no charge to it. No deal has been made, and no promise has been broken. It’s simply a wishful being hoping for companionship and attention, and this second night feeds to his lonely wishes.

 

And he continues giving.

 

The man looks up once he’s finished, curious eyes locked upon the trickster as he raises his body up to full length and wipes his face with a cloth. “Why present yourself this time with such… home-like living quarters?”

 

The demon stiffens slightly, face stone cold and unmoving in comparison to the air shift. “If effort is made for you to come, then effort shall be made for you to stay.”

 

It is an acceptable enough answer to the mortal, who simply shrugs and walks around, observing what has been brought for him. He takes the time to drag his hand against walls and furniture, feeling the materials against him and trying to shake himself awake. “Am I simply sleeping?” he questions, eyes not drifting from his path.

 

“When are we not dreaming?” the demon answers, voice softening in the slightest. “Ah, when we take to a permanent sleep. But, I assure, this is not an endless slumber.”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“It’s a world of my own. I allowed for you to enter through a more controllable state-of-mind, and thus you are awake in my land but resting in your own.”

 

“Sounds complicated.”

 

“Rudimentary magic work, on my own part. And partially of your own free-will. You could not be here if you didn’t wish to be.” There’s the term again, one that Snow’s growing familiar with.  _ Free-will _ .

 

The mortal nods, continuing to take in his surroundings before stopping in front of the demon’s throne. “While a kind gesture, I must say that I  _ have _ to kill you tomorrow.”

 

He shrugs in response, wicked lips twisting back to a grin. “I suppose you can continue to try, but I doubt you will succeed at any point.” He resists the growing urge to reach forward and grab the man by his waist, pulling him closer to taste his lips. He wants to see if they’re as sweet as the berry-pink colour they give.

 

“I will,” the man urges. “I must.”

 

Baz sneers. “Then have fun in your return to your own world and fend for your own life. You can stay comfortable here.”

 

“If you have any intent on my comfort, then why do you not create this in the mortal world? Can you not bring forth tables filled with food in my realm?”

 

The creature bursts out a laugh. “My powers are limited; do you believe I’m of godly power?”

 

“From what I observe, it feels as such.”

 

“Well, I can assure you that my powers of creation and destruction do not exceed beyond my lands. I cannot create anything out of thin air, but I can warp others to do my bidding. A dog can grow ravenous and crazed at my command, if I wish, but I cannot create a squirrel for him to eat.”

 

The man nods slowly, listening to every word and trying to retain it.

 

While strong and brave, nobody ever suggested that Simon Snow is a genius to any extent. But he can definitely listen. He takes his time to process every word and to formulate a response. “Wicked.”

 

Baz smiles more, seeming a little too genuine to be mistaken as harsh. “Definitely a response.”

 

Snow smiles back, holding onto the moment of vague comfort between them before dragging his eyes away. “May I take sit on the bed?” He waits for the creature to nod before going to sit, sinking back into the cushioning. A life of luxury, the demon must live, if he can create such lavish bedding in his world.

 

Then again, it is  _ his _ world.

 

“Baz?” he calls. It’s a tad too domestic.

 

Domestic enough, though, to evoke an answer. “Yes, Snow?”

 

“I… am unsure why you give such kind company, but I am grateful for it, even if I must kill you.”

 

The demon smiles warmly. “Of course.”

 

Snow smiles sleepily, relaxing back. His eyes grow heavy as he drifts off and back into his own world.

 

It’s warmer than the day before, but Penelope and Agatha sit at his bedside, the cat purring once he takes to rise.

 

It’s past sunrise. The world he wakes in is still the town he drifted off to, and yet somehow he misses the presence of the creature that he’s supposed to put an end to.

 

Flowers bloom in the town’s square, Snow takes notice as he begins his hunt for everyday needs. They bloom in bursts of purples, stalks growing like weeds as they fill the area with life. It mocks the emptiness that surrounds it.

 

He finds a well and draws himself enough water to bathe, using what little soaps he had packed for his journey.

 

Hours pass. It feels like an eternity to watch the sun rise high into the sky as Snow fills his day with sorting through houses and filling his own small cottage with necessities. He collects clothes to change into, finding his armor a tad overwhelming, given the lack of nearby threats. Only does he wear them when hunting, and then returns with creatures for the three of them to eat. He takes his time to pick through local gardens, tending to them and weeding them for himself. While there isn’t an abundance of edible foods, there is enough to keep him fed throughout the daytime before he can return to the welcomed warmth of a darker land. He lets them grow. He’ll need more for the days to come, unsure of how long he’ll take home in such a lonesome town.

 

And thus, his day draws to an end. After feeding his companions and cooking for himself, he spends his last hours of cognizance staring at the stars, blanket of wool wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he observes.

 

He retires to his lone bed, giving a pet to both animals before laying back and drifting off to sleep.

 

He wakes where he has awoken twice before, beginning the familiar journey.

 

At the end, he is greeted yet again by the demon resting dramatically over his throne. “Come to kill me?” He teases. His smile is almost playful.

 

“Yes,” Snow lies, sword in hand.  _ He has to, eventually _ .

 

“No,” Baz croons, sipping his wine comfortably. “You’ve come to eat and keep me company.”

 

The sword lowers, Snow keeping a leveled gaze. “Perhaps, but then I shall kill you later.”

 

The demon smiles. “Kill me if you please after you take what you wish, then.”

 

Snow stabs his sword through the ground, keeping it there. “That pleases me enough,” he replies. “Are… you not going to join me to eat? You seem to sit and watch, but never join. Are the rumors of what you consume true, then?”

 

He keeps a leveled gaze. “I acquired such a name for such a reason, Snow.” He swirls his glass, taking a sip.

 

“Oh,” Snow replies quietly. “Do you… not eat food still?”

 

“When I take human form, yes, I must, but in my own realm I have no barriers of existence. In my realm, I do not truly exist as a lifeform.”

 

“Then are you drinking blood currently?”

 

Baz pauses. His cheeks flush slightly. “No. It’s wine.”

 

Snow cocks a brow, lowering into a seat at the table and gesturing to the one across from him for Baz to sit. He, surprisingly, obliges. “For what reason besides dramatics?”

 

“No other. I quite like how I look with it in my hand.” This causes the human to crack into a smile, and he starts to eat, this time a little slower and with more intent on conversation. No rush here; he’s safe to eat and to drink so close to the demon without fear of aggression. Although, even if there was fear, Snow’s decision to dismiss it came long before.

 

This blossoming friendship of theirs, while curious, builds with each comment between each other.

 

The evening hours drag on. Snow finishes eating and Baz clears the table with a snap, leaving them sitting across from each other with nothing but wood in between.

 

And they talk. They talk about the existence of life, they talk about how old Baz is and how much he’s seen. They talk about far off lands and how much Snow wants to see.

 

The creature aches as he listens to Snow’s prattling, craving to give Snow what he wants. He wants him to see the world around him. He wants to keep seeing the upturning of his lips and the scrunching of his cheeks as he smiles, imagining far off lands that are only stories to him now.

 

He wants to be selfish.

 

To steal Snow away, to run off and have his only fights being mental; a battle over whether to explore East or West. Not a battle of arms.

 

Damaged metals. Bloodied fields. That’s all Snow has.

 

“Do you like it?” Baz asks, his long nail dragging over the woodgrain of the table. His eyes don’t meet Snow’s. “Do you enjoy fighting to the death? Taking lives in the name of someone else?”

 

“Do  _ you _ like taking lives?”

 

Baz smiles sadly. “I don’t take lives in the name of anyone but my own, and I take them so I can remain alive. Only do I leisurely kill those who deserve such a fate.”

 

Snow grows silent. His eyes follow Baz’s talon. “No,” he responds eventually, voice bending in the slightest, yet not cracking under the pressure. “I don’t enjoy it. I’m told I ‘go off’, as in I blindly attack. I have no recollection of my destruction and how many lives I take, but I’m encouraged to let it happen.  _ ‘It’s for the greater good’ _ I’m told.” He meets Baz’s eyes. “I spend the days following thinking about each life, about what each stood for. I didn’t know them, and they never quite knew me. I do not know if they had a family to return to, a little child to hold, or if they had a skilled hobby they were ripped from. Some towns are missing their best potter, and some families are missing fathers, and that’s all because of me. I have utterly no control over what lives and how many lives I’ve taken or will take, and I’m terrified of what I’ve done; of myself.”

 

They sit in silence for the minutes to come, Baz’s eyes dropping from Snow’s gaze. He watches him swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Did you want to kill me?”

 

Silence.

 

“You came to kill me. Was that desired of you?  _ Is _ it still desired of you?”

 

“I must.” It comes out weak. Broken. Quiet. Tired. Empty.

 

“Must you?”

 

“I must. I will have to return, and I must be carrying your head.” Pause. “But not tonight.”

 

Silence.

 

A simple nod from the demon.

 

They stay put, tongues caught in their throats and the empty gap between them, nothing of meaningfulness settled between. One does not wish to go, and the other craves for them to stay.

 

The evening holds onto the stale  _ I must _ , keeping both beings quiet as Snow stands, wandering over to the (albeit, unneeded) fireplace, taking a seat in front and watching it. Baz joins him at some point, and they stare. Snow at the fire, and Baz at Snow. Fire burning and ice cold, that’s what they are.

 

They don’t even exchange goodnights as Snow drifts back off, laying back on the animal pelt rug and dripping back into reality.

 

Grey.

 

That’s what his world is. A colour palette of greys.

 

All around the town, every colour is muted with a grey overlay except for one thing.

 

The flowers giving life in the middle of the square.

 

Snow takes a moment to give them a little water, keeping them alive with goodwill and hope. A burst of color is a much needed additive to such a bleak world.

 

A day’s worth of exploration does not uncover much to Snow. He finds the town’s Church and takes a moment to step inside. His cross rests on his chest, where he never moves it from.

 

Despite all the care for such a concept of God, Snow feels like there’s too much of a controlled lie for it to be the truth. If God were real, after all, he would know his parents. He would not feel odd being betrothed to a woman when he’s much happier in the company of a  _ demon _ . If there was truly a God, then why did he create man to hurt? Or, better yet, why create creatures who need to take life from man to live?

 

Snow steps to the middle of the room, lights from the greyed windows illuminating the room. “O’ God,” he begins, his private voice filling the still air. “I doubt in you. I have always doubted you, and I doubt you heavier than before. I’m speaking to an empty room now, with empty walls in an empty town, and now it feels as though I’m speaking through an empty shell up to an empty sky. But, I don’t have anyone else to speak to, so I must speak to this empty sky. O’ Empty Sky, I care for a man that is not actually a man. I feel comfort in his presence, despite the fact that I should feel the opposite, and I’m unsure of why I cannot slay him as I do so easily with countless before him. I must get it over with, I must end him, but I wish not to. I wish to stay in his realm. I wish to eat what he presents me with, I wish to listen to his intoxicating voice and to sleep in his cloud of a bed. I wish to exist beyond the world I live.

 

“So, if you exist, if you are not empty, give me the strength to end him tonight. End my misery of wishes and give me a trophy to make others  _ finally _ proud. I wear your symbol on my neck, therefore let me carry your name. Please?”

 

Silence. That much was expected, though. The ‘skies open up’ concept is a little far-fetched, even for one who eats with demons.

 

The day drags on. Snow goes through his routine of maintenance and care for the crops, hunting for food and taking care of his friends. Penelope hunts with him, Agatha stays behind and sleeps upon his bed. It’s a little like home, just more silent.

 

When Snow finds himself asleep at last, waking in the Purgatory, he feels as though he must finish it.

 

He pulls the cross out from under his coverings, laying it prominently on his breast, hearing it clank gently against his armor as he begins his descent. Baz is in his usual spot when he arrives, no shock in seeing the man stand before him. “Lovely to have you back.”

 

“Don’t,” Snow breathes, breath catching as he shakes his head. “I need to now. I have to, Baz. This needs to stop and I have to.”

 

A little bit of surprise hits Baz as he sits up. “Change of mind from our evening prior, then?” he asks, staying put in his seat. He makes no effort of advancement.

 

“ _ Stop, please _ ,” Snow chokes out, eyes sweeping over the demon. It’s now. He has to now. “I have to.”

 

“Then do it,” the creature replies in a soft tone, no hint of malice or struggle, or even fear. “Let your blade end me.”

 

He charges. Snow charges at the demon and raises his sword, about to come down as he stops. He gasps for breath, his arms floating above the creature as his eyes flutter shut. Shaky breath and wobbling legs. Snow cannot do it.

 

He throws the sword aside and drops onto the demon’s lap, sending Baz’s hands up into the air with shock. The warrior heaves, trembling against the creature as he shakes his head. If there’s a time to end Snow, it would be now, but nothing of the sort would even cross the demon’s mind as Snow unravels wordlessly.

 

He doesn’t speak. Neither of them speak, in fact, for the rest of the evening. Even after Snow’s calmed, Baz keeps silent and hands off. He watches Snow push himself off to stand, wiping his eyes and kicking away the sword even further. As Snow composes himself, he drags his eyes away to anywhere  _ but _ Baz, glancing once more at the fireplace. He takes a seat there.

 

Baz brings over a plate of food.  _ He’s probably hungry _ .

 

Snow eats it. They sit in silence until he drifts off into a restful slumber.

 

In the morning, he removes his cross and chucks it into the river.

 

By the next night, he doesn’t appear in Baz’s realm with a sword, nor his cross.

 

As the days and nights start to drag into a somber waltz--the night feeling more alive than the day--some things begin to change or become apparent. First, Snow can appear in whatever clothing he wishes to Baz’s chambers. He no longer appears in armor, but instead his everyday clothes. Second, Baz is more domestic than one could expect. He plays violin whenever there’s a long pause of comfortable silence, and he enjoys listening to Simon’s stories of the days he’d train and his adventures with Penelope. Finally, anything Snow does in the demon’s realm becomes reality in human realm. For example, he takes a bath in Baz’s world, he is clean in the human world. He is scratched accidentally in the demon world? A scab is on his arm when he’s awoken by the rising sun.

 

Snow’s time in the rotation between Baz’s world and his own becomes a dangerous cycle of comfort as the fall season drags in. Simon finds himself cleaning leaves in town and wearing an extra wool sweater as he does his gardening. He plants root vegetables and teaches himself to whittle for fun on the rainy days.

 

And while it’s comforting to have a space of his own without ties to any other human creature, he grows increasingly worried. It’s been weeks without his return to the castle, and there is nearly a panic , as the people are anticipating his return. He had warned prior that he could possibly need to camp and wait for the creature, but he’s nearing the days of his latest anticipated return. There will be search parties soon, and he’ll have to return empty handed.

 

Which is all that’s in his head as he wakes in Baz’s bed (he’d begun to wake up in the bed roughly a week prior; Baz said it must’ve been his wishes to wake there rather than make the journey down. Snow suspects it’s because Baz wishes to have him there immediately). He needs to leave soon, and his life will no longer be the comfortable cycle he’s grown into. He needs to—

 

Baz is playing violin by the fireplace, his legs rocking in the slightest as a gentle tune cascades out into the open. His robes dance on the floor around him, swirling with his movements. Despite his back being to Snow, the mortal can already tell his facial movements. Brows furrowed, but mouth slack. He’s ridiculously gorgeous when he plays.

 

“I quite like it when you play me awake,” Snow mumbles groggily, curls slightly matted as he pulls himself up to a seated position, holding the silken sheets closer. Baz turns quickly, his bow dropping with his arm, but chin still tightly in place. A warm smile spreads across his face.

 

“Ah, you’ve decided to grace us with your presence.” Swiftly, the violin is back in its spot as Baz takes a seat at the foot of the bed. He never dares to lay with Snow in fears of scaring him off, unless he’s invited to first.

 

A heartwarming huff from Snow as he rubs his face vigorously, letting his hands drop to his lap palms up. Baz takes them, giving them a squeeze. “Hungry?”

 

“Starved.”

 

They both let go of their held hands, lazily finding a seat at the table. Snow picks at his food, eyes downcast. “My crops are doing well, but a storms coming in,” he begins, chewing with his mouth open. Baz gives him a pointed look, so he shuts his mouth and blushes in the slightest. He continues after swallowing. “There were passersby earlier this afternoon, but they didn’t enter the town. Penelope greeted them and showed them away. Quite thankful for that.”

 

“You don’t wish to see people again?” Baz questions, sipping from his glass. Snow knows it’s just a show, but he adores it more than anything. “It must grow tiresome to just be interacting with animals and me for days and days.”

 

“I don’t mind it.” He takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. “I’ve grown to enjoy it, actually. Gives me time to think.”

 

Baz chuckles, his head tossing back a little. His hair flows with it. “What could you possibly be thinking about so much?”

 

“I don’t know. Vegetables?”

 

They laugh together.

 

They calm and Snow takes another bite or two. “In honesty, I must say that I think about the stars and the galaxies. I think about building more rather than destroying. I think I’ve grown tired of my life outside of this.” He pauses and thinks about his next words carefully, letting them dance on his tongue. “I… spend a large amount of my day thinking about returning.” His eyes meet Baz’s, flicking over his face and trying desperately to understand what the creature could be thinking. “I have spent the last days thinking over my time here, and how I feel once I leave. I prefer existing here over existing in my own realm.”

 

Baz simply stares, his throat tugging his words back down and keeping them bottled back.  _ Live with me, Snow. Stay, if you can. I can always find a way, I can always keep you as my little pet. My little winter storm. A snowflake among the flaming heat of my dark world. _ But he remains silent, breath caught and foot tapping endlessly.

 

Soft. That’s what Simon Snow, the Mage of Warriors is. He’s soft. He’s a downy pillow; he’s the sheepskin that lies in front of the fireplace. His skin draws a galaxy of constellations that Baz is only treated to when the world is so kind as to let him sleep, and his selfish mind begs him to tell Snow that if he can trade the outside’s galaxies to become his own contained star, he’d give him his world.

 

But the demon doesn’t. He stares into him, chest racing and mind spiraling out of control as he watches him just  _ eat _ .

 

Although, he likes that. He likes knowing that the mortal is filling on what he needs to survive. He wishes to do no more than provide every last need and then want for Simon Snow.

 

So when Snow says “I want to stay a little longer tonight”, Baz happily makes sure that just so happens.

 

“What do you wish to do to keep yourself up, then?” He whispers, eyes trailing around Snow’s freckles and moles. Star clusters.

 

“I want to dance,” Snow whispers back, setting down his fork. “Teach me to dance so I can sway properly to your music. I feel awfully offbeat.”

 

_ I can do that _ , the demon thinks as he stands, offering a clawed, inky black hand to the tanned soldier.  _ I can keep you on rhythm. _

 

They walk to stand facing each other, smack dead in the center of the room. Baz extends an arm, and Snow lets it rest against his shoulder, staring up into his eyes. He doesn’t even flinch as Baz’s other hand rests against his hip. “Both hands on my shoulders, Snow.”

 

“That’s quite a reach,” he complains playfully, their faces both lighting up into smiles and a short giggle from Snow as he follows orders. They stay still for a beat before Baz begins to sway them, whispering commands of foot movements.

 

They sway gently, a grumbly hum emitting from Baz’s throat.

 

_ It’s nearly as beautiful as his playing. _ All that runs through Snow’s head is Baz. His voice, his hands locked tightly against him. His claws press but don’t leave marks, cold to the touch but warming to the feel. He guides him, keeping a formal distance of fear and unknowing whether or not either is comfortable enough to come closer.

 

“Baz?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You can come closer.”

 

He does, leaving Snow’s chest to press against him in the slightest. The foot of height gives it a bit of an awkward shift, but the hair tickling Baz’s face makes it more than worth it.

 

And so they sway comfortably, the hand on Snow’s hip trickling around and pressing into his lower back. The man’s cheeks grow pink as he closes his eyes, getting lost against the soft robes and citrusy scent of the monster.

 

Not a monster. Baz is not a monster.

 

He’s a monster. Snow’s a monster.

 

Baz is trying to stay alive; Snow’s killing because he’s told to. If anybody’s the monster, it’s the one who leaves others to dig graves of innocent men defending their countries.

 

And so Snow spirals, holding tighter to Baz as his mind caves. He’s starting to gasp, tears trickling down his cheeks as Baz pulls back, hands rushing to Snow’s face. “Snow? Snow. Simon,” he whispers intimately.

 

“I don’t want to go back and kill people,” he cries breathlessly, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m a  _ monster. _ ”

 

“You are not, Snow. You’re a man.”

 

He shakes his head, trying to step further away. Baz doesn’t allow that. His hands keep hold of his soft, mortal cheeks. “Simon Snow, you’re man. You’re merely human. You’re not a monster.”

 

Snow struggles against him, wanting to run. Wanting to hide. He wants to stop being ashamed, he wants to hide from whatever he’s going to be upon his return. He wants, he wants…

 

“Simon.” Baz’s voice is tender, a breath of relief. “Simon, you’re not breathing.”

 

He gasps again, eyes opening as Baz’s arms fit tightly around him. Without hesitation, Snow holds him closer, face scrunching as he carefully breathes. “You need rest.”

 

“I need to stay.”

 

“Snow, I’m concerned for your—“

 

“I want to stay. I want to stay with you.”

 

Baz stays silent for a minute, the echoing of the fireplace crackles filling sparks in Snow’s stomach.  _ Please. Keep me here. _

 

Baz’s lips press tentatively to Snow’s face, resting on his mess of a head. “You’ll be here again tomorrow, and I’ll be here too. I give my oath.” His hand shifts back to his face, resting below his chin and tilting it up. Snow’s watery stare bares into Baz’s face. “I cannot break an oath.”

 

“I’ll be back?”

 

“You’ll be back as you always are.”

 

Snow’s breath catches in his throat. Bottled back. “I’ll be back.”

 

He lets Baz lay him back in the bed, twisting among the silk sheets. His hand flutters up, catching the creature’s wrist as he urges him back.

 

The demon sits, but does not lay. Not immediately, at least. Not until Snow tugs once more and opens his blanket. Then does the creature lay, holding the human against his body.

 

And the human sleeps.

 

He trickles back into his life, chest still tightly wound.

 

It’s later in the day than when he typically wakes, but there’s nothing urging Snow to drag himself up to. He carries on his usual day’s schedule. Gardening. Hunting. Eating. Hobby here, hobby there.

 

It’s so mundane, but it’s so much better than anything else he could imagine. To sit in the square, keeping the soil moist for the dying flowers in hopes to keep the grey world colourful is preferable to staining the muted ground red.

 

And when he finally grows tired after watching the stars fill the sky again, he retires off to bed to find his way back to Baz.

 

Falling. That’s what it feels like. It feels like falling into a new world, and before the cord breaks, one wakes up and is surrounded by an environment so new and yet so familiar.

 

The silk bed, the sound of a violin. The environment is different than the one he fell asleep to, but it’s so much better.

 

It’s home.

 

Snow’s eyes push open to see Baz playing for him, feet away from the bed and swaying slowly to the beat. It’s a new one, one that Snow’s never even heard a bit from, and still gorgeous as ever.

 

“’S new,” he whispers, staggering up onto his feet and walking himself over in a sleepy haze. The creature doesn’t stop but smiles, eyes still shut.

 

“I wrote it,” he hums back.

 

“What’s it about?”

 

“You.”

 

Snow blinks a tad before grinning, chest swelling as he holds his lip between his teeth. “Me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then don’t stop,” Snow whispers, taking a seat back on the bed and watching him with full eyes and a skipping heart.

 

And so he doesn’t. The creature plays through the song gracefully, bow dragging to an end before he lowers his arms, stealing a glance at Snow, who’s just staring in awe. Baz grins, raising a brow. “No applause from the audience?” he jokes softly before turning to put his violin away.

 

“That was… beautiful, Baz.”

 

“Was it?” He knows it was.

 

“ _ Beautiful _ ,” Snow emphasises, compliments trickling out of his mouth. “Wonderful, brilliant, gorgeous…” he trails, staring into the back of Baz’s head. “Is that how you feel about me?”

 

The space between them stops in time. _Is that how you feel about me? Do you love me?_ _Yes Snow, yes I love you_. He stays put where he stopped, set on pause.

 

“Is… is that how you feel, Baz?”

 

“That and everything more,” he whispers out, not managing to turn himself around. Not even when he feels the footsteps behind him closing in. “Simon Snow, you’re so marvelous that I can’t even think to compact the entirety of how I feel about you into a simple melody.”

 

A hand tugs against the demon’s arm, urging him to turn.

 

He does so, eyes downcast to meet Snow’s. He’s staring, wide eyes and slightly parted lips. His damned, peach-pink lips. Snow’s a sin and a half, and he’s holding Baz’s arms, hands sneaking underneath the robes to feel the bare skin of his forearms as he presses  _ closer _ .

 

“Simon—“

 

He kisses him sweetly, lips gently resting against colder ones with care. Snow’s up on his tiptoes, struggling a little to reach Baz but trying nonetheless. Carefully, the demon bends to meet him more comfortably, hands moving to hold his waist as he kisses him back ever so gently, afraid that he’ll shatter under the touch.

 

Slow. That’s what they are. They’re all slow paces; all careful and hesitant touches.

 

They stop, breathe, giggle, then go again, Snow’s hands slipping out of the demon’s sleeves and pushing open the front of his robe, palms pressing against bare skin and lips turning to a grin against his, feeling the claws on his hands press closer to him but not daring to puncture skin. They press against each other more, trying to melt together, trying to be one. Baz lets Snow give and takes all he can, eager to have more of him. All of him.

 

Hands. Traveling hands. Finding somewhere to grip, finding somewhere to be, finding somewhere to hold. Both sets of hands try desperately to keep pressed to each other’s bodies, reminding themselves that they’re real.

 

Lips. Snow’s lips lower to Baz’s neck, kissing and kissing and sucking and kissing and pulling him oh so closer, begging for him to not let go.

 

Feet. Steps stumbling back eventually after their legs sway to keep their weight.

 

They back to the bed, sprawling out onto silk and luxurious cotton. Hands stay curious, mouths stay needing. The robe—Baz’s robe—is untied and pushed aside, Snow’s hungry mouth traveling wherever he can get a taste. Down. Further down until Baz feels the need to pull him away, looking deep into his eyes and opening his mouth to question, but instead being cut off by a flicker of a tongue as Snow’s head dips down to get a quick lick. Baz doesn’t stop him now, shuddering under his touch.

 

Snow’s mouth does  _ not _ match the man’s namesake. It may be wet, but it surely isn’t cold. It’s as warm as the beating sun, and it’s taking Baz recklessly and sloppily, filled with want and need.

 

To Baz’s concern, maybe misdirected want and need.

 

“S-Simon,” he puffs out, tugging his curls eagerly. “I… Please.”

 

Snow pops off, looking at Baz with heavy eyes and a slack jaw as he breathes heavily.

 

“You’re… you’re going so awfully fast, I…”

 

“I want  _ this _ ,” Snow breathes, eyes locked on Baz’s. “Do you?”

 

Baz watches him with a fluttering chest and spinning head.  _ He’s absolutely, breathtakingly gorgeous with my cock in his mouth _ . “More than anything.”

 

Snow grins up wickedly for a second before letting his tongue travel up his shaft, watching him quiver as he licks around his head and pausing before taking him down entirely. Baz unravels beneath him, clutching his hair and bursting out short moans and gasps, mostly consisting of ‘Simon’, but broken down into huffs of just ‘Si’.

 

The mortal sucks as he can, taking as much as his throat will let him without gagging, and letting his hand do the rest of the work. He looks up, watching Baz wriggle and whine. That sends him a bit over, sucking harder at his cock as he lets him rock into his mouth, tasting pre-come and sweat as he ogles up at the creature, squeaking a bit when he comes in his mouth quite quickly. He swallows as much as he can, eyes wide as he pulls away, saliva and come dribbling down his chin. Without much warning, he’s dragged back up to meet Baz’s mouth, the creature’s tongue diving into Snow’s mouth to taste himself.

 

Eventually, Snow pulls back for breath, his hands wound tight in Baz’s hair as he grins at him stupidly. “Shit,” he whispers before giggling and sitting upright. “ _ Shit _ .”

 

Baz stares at him blankly, hands off him in surprise. “I… was there something wrong?”

 

“No. No not at all.” Snow presses a wet kiss to Baz’s cheek, grinning stupidly as he rubs his hands up the demon’s chest.  _ Shit _ . “I suppose I got a little excited…”

 

“A  _ little _ ?” Baz asks, a twinge of softness in his voice as his hand takes hold of Snow’s hips. It pushes past his shirt, resting against his bare skin. He’s so alive. “You were like a starved animal being offered a meal.” His free hand reaches up, combing through the mortal’s matted curls.

 

Snow’s eyes shut as his head tilts back in the slightest, letting out a satisfied hum. “I would count that as consuming  _ something _ .” Pinch. “Ouch.”

 

“Not sorry, but I can kiss it better.”

 

“Do it.” He’s flipped over, pinned below the creature, who smirks down at him and pops the buttons off his shirt. Snow gasps, but finds himself smiling instead of disappointed at his ruined clothing. He doesn’t need it anyway. He lets the creature kiss at his skin, finding the spot on his hip that he pinched and press gentle, soothing kisses to the reddened spot.

 

A happy hum. “All better,” he purrs, nose pressing to the soft, tanned skin of the man beneath him and breathing in. He takes a second to kiss the freckles of his hips, mapping out his skin in the detail of an explorer finding new land.

 

Snow’s uncharted territory, left out for Baz to explore.

 

And explore he does. He takes a moment, sitting upright and lopsidedly smiling at Snow as he begins removing his clothing. Lifts of hips and shifting of weight here and there and Snow’s naked below the creature, every inch of him exposed and not shying away. Practically begging a nonverbal “have at it” as his tongue flickers over his lips, a smile creeping across his face. Slowly, Baz trickles kisses down the length of his tanned body, his lips lasting seconds on his hips before he utters a soft “Turn over.”

 

Quickly, Snow turns his body over onto his front, pressing his needing hips back towards Baz as he shakily holds onto the bed sheets. “What are you--”

 

“Just relax, dear,” he breathes, lips curled into a smile as they press down to the top of his crack. His palms press to his cheeks and spread them apart. “Do you want me to…?”

 

“Dear  _ God _ , yes.”

 

Baz breathes out a chuckle, his tongue drawing down before teasing around his hole, eliciting a gasp and slight jerking away from Snow, who Baz just holds tighter.

 

“S-sorry,” Snow stutters, his cheeks bright pink. “K-keep going.”

 

He does so, tongue flicking against him before pressing his tongue inside carefully, his hands taking a stronger grip onto Snow’s hips as he digs his tongue in deeper.

 

Snow gasps and squirms, his face buried deep in the bed sheets as he pants, hips rocking in the slightest. One of his hands flies back, taking hold of Baz’s hair and tugging slightly as he writhes beneath him. He barely manages out moans of Baz’s name, hell, barely managing anything but quick puffs of breath and the involuntary groans he makes each time he hits  _ that _ spot, sending Snow’s back arching. 

 

Intent on sending him off the deep end, Baz keeps flickering against his prostate, one hand wrapping around and  _ painfully slowly _ stroking the length of him. He hums in the slightest, letting Snow rock towards his hand until he comes, back arching and hips pressing back.

 

In a swift movement, the demon pulls off his hand and out his tongue, giving the man’s cheek a quick nip before letting him turn over, flushed and panting below him. Snow looks up in wonder, cheeks pink and grinning shyly. “Well?” he whispers eventually, reaching up to play with the demon’s tousled locks.

 

Baz chuckles, deep and throaty as he leans down against the man, kissing the moles lining his neck. “’Well’ what?”

 

“Well… what’s done now? What’s to come of us?”

  
“Mm. Inevitable doom,” Baz purrs against his skin, still intent on kissing  _ every _ last mole and freckle on his body. “But bliss before then, hopefully.”

 

Snow smiles slightly. “I suppose hopefully.” His fingers drag through the demon’s locks, a hand resting on one of his horns and giving it a gentle tug. His face lifts to meet Snow’s, a brow raising. The mortal kisses the creature. He’s right. It is bliss. Pure bliss.

 

And that’s how they lie, resting together atop of the private bed in their own private world, ignoring the burdens of any outside distractions. Forgetting of differences, forgetting of rivalries and extinguished pains. It’s now sugar-sweet lips, chapping each other as they kiss and tug, lick and tease. Hot and cold.

 

They part for breath at times, rearranging themselves and finding the bliss again moments later. It lasts until Snow tires, until Baz knows the night nears an end. Then they just talk.

 

“How often do you do that?” Snow whispers, face flush against Baz’s smoothed hair. The dark being only buries his face deeper into Snow’s neck.

 

“I’m guilty of indulging upon occasion,” he breathes, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “It always occurs when I take the human form and I find myself in a bathhouse. It hasn’t been more than brief meetings, though. A quick go, and he leaves.” His lips press to the crook of Snow’s neck, smiling as he shivers in the slightest. “Never like this, though.  _ Never _ . Not even my time spent in Greece. I never felt it possible to let someone around me for long enough; they’d never initiate a conversation or anything beyond a look, and it left me feeling fulfilled but unsatisfied at the end. Supposed that’s why I’d end up draining most of them in the end.” Snow tenses slightly below him and Baz chuckles. “Don’t worry, you’re more than safe,” his voice drops to a whisper, “I can’t even dream of hurting you.”

 

A quiet sigh of relief emits from Snow as his hands rub against the beast’s back. “Baz?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I can’t wait to come back tomorrow.”

 

A smile against his skin. “I know, dear.” He’s nearly too quiet to hear, straining Snow’s ears as he listens and grins back. “But, my dear, you have to sleep now. Rest enough to see me again.” His eyes lower, blink by blink, before they’re too heavy to remain open. The last thing Snow hears before he slips away is “Sleep tight, my brave Warrior.”

 

Then, he’s back.

 

It’s a chilly day again, quite overcast. Enough so that Snow bundles in an extra wool sweater to make his journey out to tend the gardens, playing fetch with Penelope and giving Agatha enough attention to make her stop meowing every time he’s  _ not _ petting her.

 

He tends the flowers in the square. Despite the ever-cooling weather, they’re seeming to stay alive  _ just _ enough.

 

The lively colour in his grey world.

 

He spends a portion of the day thinking about Baz, thinking about him in mortal form and being there beside him. About how lively he would be, standing beside the crumbling rock and straw buildings. His river-clay skin, his deep red horns, even his inky black hands would contrast against the world. Only his eyes would stand to be so fitting.

 

Maybe that’s why Snow adores them so much. Despite the demon’s realm being so colourful compared to the mortal’s world, there’s still a taste of the grey sitting in Baz’s eyes.

 

It’s calming; welcoming. Like he can exist in both worlds at once.

 

But he can’t.

 

It’s clear when storm clouds brew, fighting in clashes of rumbling and crashing, sending Snow flinching at each crack. He brings in the day’s hunt and gathers Penelope and Agatha with him inside the house, feeding them and cooking for himself as the war in nature clamours outside.

 

His body involuntarily shakes, hands flying up at an especially loud clap of lightning. His heart pounds, face growing wet with tears that he doesn’t quite know the origin of.

 

Battle. He’s in battle. Storming crowds of men, shouting. Clashing of metal. Bodies colliding. Cracking of bone. It sends Snow spinning, his vision spiraling and body trying to regain composure as each snap reminds him of what he is.  _ Monster. Monster. Monster. How many are dead because of you? Children should sing weary rhymes in fear of your return, but instead they claim you’re a savior. What sort of savior kills so many? Monster. Monster. Monster. _

 

It’s a losing battle. Snow finishes his dinner, hands barely steady and mind nowhere near as in control as he’d wish. Spiraling. Spinning.  _ Let me spin out of control. _ He barely sets himself into his own bed, Penelope at his side and Agatha taking a seat on his chest, weighing him down in the slightest. His hand drags against her snow white fur.

 

_ Sleep _ , he urges himself,  _ sleep and bring yourself home. _

 

He breathes in shakily and breathes out the same, barely finding himself able to fall again.

 

But when his line nears the snapping point, he’s awake in the bed of silk, Baz laying close with eyes fixated on him and hand on his chest. He’s naked, as he left himself (and assumedly how he wished to return), but his body aches with the feeling of fear and shame.

 

Wet. His cheeks are streaked wet and still trembling.

 

A hand reaches out to touch them—no, not any hand, Snow reminds himself—Baz reaches to touch the tears before pulling Snow close, hands gripping him tightly and lovingly. A locked embrace held together with quiet reassurances from Baz’s lips and the steady calming of Snow’s heart, keeping pressed to the creature.

 

They don’t talk about it. Snow doesn’t start, and Baz doesn’t push it. A pause. Silence. Then the press of cold lips against curled hair. “Hungry?”

 

“Mm… mmhm.”

 

“Right. Should I bring it over?” Snow nods. “Alright, dear.” He leaves his side, returning with a full plate and resting beside him, carding his fingers through the man’s hair as he lets him devour with shaking hands.

 

Baz’s hand glides over Snow’s hair. It’s gotten shaggier along the sides since he’s arrived. It’s clear that in his homeland he’s treated with care; groomed, polished, fawned upon, given his every want, his every need.

 

Maybe every want and need  _ besides _ companionship. Snow’s starved of it; if he wasn’t, he would’ve killed Baz on the first night, or the second, maybe the third. Definitely the fourth. If he had the will, the need to take Baz’s life, he would’ve, but he’s been starved of someone to talk to that he’s decided this is what he needs. Someone to talk to, or maybe just someone to listen to. Just  _ someone _ . He feels it; every time he mentions his life at home, especially the Penelope he speaks of, there’s a glint in his eyes that just craves the constant intimacy of conversation.

 

And that’s what Baz wants to give him. Forever.

 

Soft conversations, reassurances of care and closeness.

 

_ This _ touch against his hair.  _ This _ holding of his hands.

 

And now, Baz supposes,  _ this _ kissing of his cheek,  _ this _ caress of his arm. Or, at least, that’s what Baz is hoping he wants.

 

So he tests the waters, pressing his lips up to Snow’s cheek as the smaller man scarfs down food. He feels the heat, radiating off in waves from his golden rays of skin. In response, he earns a happy hum and feels the cheek beneath him crease into a smile. With such an answer, he goes to caress Snow’s arm. He doesn’t stop eating, so Baz tries his thigh. He feels Snow shift beside him, opening his legs in the slightest. An invitation, as Baz sees, to sneak his hand inward and to hold his inner thigh with care. His lips move south in the slightest, pressing sugar-sweet kisses to jawline and dipping below, tongue against his pulse. The creature takes his time to feel each beat jump up, the intoxicating smell of Snow’s blood jumping to him. He’s so human. He’s so alive.

 

He’s so mortal. He’ll die one day.

 

The thought rattles Baz’s brain, pressing to the front of his mind with each pump of the pulse.  _ Simon Snow will die, and there’s nothing that can stop that. _

 

_ Yes, yes he will, but not so soon _ . Baz presses his body closer to Snow’s, kissing more and more.  _ Savour him now. Relish in what will happen today. Fear is for tomorrow. _

 

Snow sets aside his finished plate, his smile pushing as he breaks out into a laugh. “ _ Baz _ , please, give me a—“ he’s attacked with an almost aggressive kiss, breaking it to finish, “—moment. Are you feeling quite alright?”

 

“When I’m with you? Never better.” He pulls the human close again, arms throwing around his neck as he kisses and kisses and  _ kisses _ the breath out of him. He pulls himself onto Snow’s lap, making a show of settling between his legs and pushing the hair out of the man’s face as he goes for another kiss, legs wrapping around his waist. Forward. Pressing forward, rocking forward,  _ forward _ . Into Snow. Into his space, into his world. Molten gold in a human cast, giving him all the riches he desires.

 

He doesn’t ask for too much; not yet, at least. He can’t expect Snow to shove it in him so soon since Snow’s obviously new at  _ every _ part of this that it nearly pains Baz. Therefore, Baz leaves it for Snow to initiate. Until that point, kissing will do. Kissing will more than do.

 

And kissing the night away is all that’s done, shifting positions routinely and finding new ways to torment each other with an edging gasp or leaning a certain way to reach their lips. A back and forth that lasts until Snow grows tired, struggling to keep up with Baz’s excited tongue and affinity for love bites.  _ We’ll both be here tomorrow _ , Snow reminds himself as he pulls back for yet another yawn (third in the past few minutes) and he lets the demon accept defeat, for now. “I’ll be back,” he reminds, a sleepy smile plastered across his worn face.

 

“I know you will, darling,” Baz replies in a little huff, still catching his breath. “I know. Sweet dreams, my sweet warrior.”

 

As Snow sinks away, he feels the last remaining kisses coat his cheeks and neck, all intentional and holding more love than he could ever imagine, the ice cold skin burning through him. Love.  _ Love. _ That’s what he feels. The mortal feels love in the purest form, in the form of waiting, in the form of staying. In the form of not wanting to go.

 

When he’s back in his distorted grey world, it still burns.  _ Love _ . He loves him.

 

He never figured he’d ever know what love would feel like.

 

In the church with the other orphans, he’d always assumed that when the nuns would tell them that God loves them and someone would always love them that it was a lie because Snow didn’t love anyone back. Even as The Mage brought him to the castle, showing him off to the world as the next greatest Mage, deserving of the world’s love, Snow hadn’t felt that. It felt like a missing block of him, one that was only slightly satisfied when he’d sneak off to explore the woodlands with Penelope.

 

But her love felt different. Penelope feels like a warm blanket. Baz feels like he’s burning from the inside, a glowing ember for Baz to keep his icicle skin temperate.

 

He wants that for him; any sort of feasible warmth. He wants Baz to feel what he feels. Does he feel what he feels?

 

He looks at him like he does. He smiles at him like he does. He holds his hands and practically shows him that yes, he  _ does _ love him.

 

That sticks in Snow’s head. A honey-sweet memory of lips pressed against his flickers through his mind as he stays inside, a rainstorm blowing on the walls as he carves away a little figure. The animals stay in, Penelope hiding below his bed and Agatha curling up to the fireplace, purring with each pet she receives. It’s quiet. It’s calm.

 

It’s where Snow wants Baz beside him,  _ forever _ . He wishes to have him beyond their nightly visits; he wishes for Baz to show him the world. Take him far, far away. Let him never hear the harsh clash of metal again. Let him be free.

 

_ Free. _ That’s something he’s never been, until he’d come here, until he met Baz. “Free-will” ricochets around Snow’s mind as he presses the blade into the wood, curving it. It’s nearly arousing, the thought to choose what one wants to do. He’s never chosen. He does as he’s told, from eating, to dressing, to battle plans. It’s never his choice.

 

But now? Baz looks him in the eyes and rumbles a reminder of that intoxicating free-will.

 

He sets his knife and current creation aside, grabbing a throw-over before stepping outside.

 

Free-will is walking into the open.

 

Free-will is feeling heavy drops of water coat your face as you grin. Cracking, breaking into a smile. A laugh. Whooping and hollering Snow goes, pulling the wrappings closer around him as he starts to prance around the town. It’s beautiful. It’s such a gorgeous grey, rippling waves of rain hitting him as he laughs, twirling giddily.

 

If he were at home, he would’ve been rushed inside, tutted upon for going out into such weather while he could be training inside or greeting guests or—

 

It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters anymore. What matters is he has free-will now, and nothing can take this away from him; not now, not ever. It’s decided. He’ll  _ never _ return to the hell-hole that was his life, now that freedom’s been pressed to his lips. There’s never been such a lover as freedom, and he’s head-over-heels.

 

He stays outside for at least an hour, grinning ear to ear as he lets his clothes and hair soak. The sky trickles into darkness as Snow’s body grows tired and he lets himself back inside, stripping bare and piling woven blankets high as he lays in the bed. Warm. He trickles away, deeper into the warmth, and waking up in the warm world below.

 

He wakes up to Baz still against him, eyes closed and head against his chest. His horns gently prod into his cheek, but once he gets wind that Snow’s awake, his head pops up and his eyes flicker open. A smile grows. “Welcome back, beautiful,” he purrs, leaning up. Their lips meet, one of the creature’s hands finding its way into Snow’s tangled curls and resting there as they lazily kiss.

 

Slowly, gently. He lets Snow fully wake against him before straddling him, hands resting against the curved muscles of the warrior’s chest. Indulgence. Pure indulgence. His hips press down, tongue pressed to the inside of Snow’s teeth as he groans against him.  _ Pure sin. _ Baz presses down again, testing a grind of his hips as his arms wrap around Snow’s shoulders. The man grips his hair more, grinding up to meet his, breath catching against him.  _ Good. _

 

Baz pulls back, hips still rocking wickedly as he stares into Snow’s blown eyes.  _ Yes. Brilliant. _ He makes a show of trickling his hands back to Snow’s chest, running up his well-worked muscles. “Have me, o’ great warrior,” he growls, corner of his mouth upturning into a smirk and letting out a joyful gasp as Snow practically attacks him, kissing his throat as his hand sneaks back as takes a handful of his behind and squeezing, kneading as he trails his tongue down his skin. He lets go, giving a good slap.

 

“I’ve… I’ve never…” Snow whispers, lips still brushing the beast’s skin as his cheeks grow rosier. “I’m not sure how to—“

 

“Shh,” Baz breathes as he shakes his head, pressing a long finger to his lips, an obscene tongue running over his bottom lip in a flash. He grins, kissing Snow’s cheek for an extended moment before bending over, reaching under the bed and procuring out a bottle of oils and shoving it into Snow’s hands. “Open it.” He does so, pulling the cork off and setting it aside before his eyes glance up to meet Baz’s.

 

His long clawed fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle, pouring enough in his hand before he works the oils onto Snow’s fingers, pressing slow kisses along the mortal’s neck. He presses his way to his ear before uttering “Put your finger in me.”

 

Snow shivers, chin pushing up as he nods.  _ Holy… _ His hand travels along Baz’s hip before dipping down, spreading his cheeks and probing around.  _ In _ . His index finger presses in, eyes following Baz’s back as the creature plants his face into Snow’s neck.

 

Delicately, he presses further, mouth gaping and breathing in careful puffs as another finger sneaks in, pushing up. The gasp against him only encourages him more, feeling up towards his prostate and teasing it. Moments pass before he pokes a third finger in, Snow’s lips finding their way to Baz’s hair and breathing in, mouth fixed open as his eyes shut. “Is this right?”

 

The demon gives him an affirmative nod, rocking down onto Snow’s fingers as he clings tighter. His hand grips around Snow’s arm as gently as he can manage, holding it steady as he continues to rock back and forth on the man’s fingers. Slowly, he pulls back from his chest, keeping an iron tight grip as he sits up, grinding down with a bastard’s grin plastered across his face as he dramatically gets himself off on Snow’s fingers. All for show, he pulls himself off painfully slowly before cupping his warrior’s face and kissing him, lips upturned against his.

 

In one fluid motion, he pushes off from Snow and grabs the oils again, shifting back onto Snow’s thighs. “May I touch you?”

 

A quick nod, and Baz’s now oil covered hand strokes up Snow’s cock, coating him thoroughly and taking his time to work in a painstakingly slow fashion, stroking up and down while locking eyes with the man. He quirks a grin, letting go and nonchalantly resting his forearms over Snow’s shoulders. “Tell me what you want, my warrior,” he teases, keeping himself steadily up on his knees.

 

Snow whines needily, cheeks flushed bright red. “ _ You. _ ”

 

A chuckle, deep and throaty. “What  _ exactly _ do you want from me?”

 

“ _ Christ _ , Baz, you,” Snow whimpers up.  _ Obscene _ .

 

“What’s the special word?” Baz purrs, toying with Snow’s hair as he waits.

 

Snow gasps. Obscene, obscene, obscene. “P-Please!”

 

Lips press to Snow’s cheek, letting out a quiet “thank you” before they part back. Slowly, Baz lowers himself down onto Snow’s cock, his mouth dropping open and claws pressing into Snow’s skin. “Oh,” escapes his lips, disappearing into the air as he rests himself intimately down.

 

Snow’s reaction nearly mimics that of the creature’s, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back. Tighter he grips onto Baz’s hips, fingertips digging into dark skin as he struggles to stop his own hips from bucking. He waits, unsure entirely of Baz’s plans, but secretly loving his relinquishment of power over to the demon.  _ Good _ , he thinks, mind racing a mile a minute,  _ take it all; take all you can from me until there’s nothing left. _

 

At first, it’s at a snail’s pace, leaving Snow quivering as his hands pull Baz closer and closer with each of the taller being’s rocks. The demon draws out as many vulgar noises as he can manage from his lover, pushing Snow onto his back and riding the words out of him. Little pleas and cries, telling Baz to keep going, don’t stop, and  _ go harder _ ,  _ Baz _ , which, after he promptly stopped moving entirely, was followed by a nearly pitiful  _ please _ , resulting in  _ exactly _ what he wanted.

 

_ Harder _ . Harder and harder, he rocks, taking grip of Snow’s shoulders and starting to quicken his motions as he lets out moans between each pant, building speed as Snow unravels below him, melting until he’s nothing more than a whining mess of grunts and groans.  _ Sin _ . Glorious, otherworldly sin.

 

With each sinful bounce, he pulls Snow nearer and nearer, leaning down to catch his gaping mouth with his own and kissing him so forcefully that they both see stars. Baz drags his hands down the length of Snow’s body, scraping him lightly as he rides him, trying not to let his eagerness show. Too much. So much. It’s all so, so much and he draws impossibly closer.

 

“Baz,” the mortal whines, “Baz I-I have to—”

 

The demon nods, forehead pressed firmly to Snow’s as he rides him, his face twisting in a merciless whine as he feels Snow come inside of him, leading him to follow shortly after in a flurry of gasps as he holds onto the man tightly.

 

Stars. Spinning stars in clusters, or possibly just star clusters of Snow’s face, a galaxy so close to Baz’s own. “Beautiful,” he breathes, a feeble smile on his face as he recovers, completely out of breath and wrung out, he barely able to hold himself above Snow. “You’re so beautiful. The most beautiful mortal I’ve ever met.”

 

Snow’s eyes don’t open, but his already open mouth spreads wide for a feather-soft smile. He licks his lips, barely rasping out his words. “I’d trade my world to live with you in yours.”

 

Baz’s heart comes to a halt, his unsteady breathing catching in his throat. “Don’t say that, Simon,” he croaks, “no. I won’t allow it.”

 

“Mm. Too late; it’s been said.”

 

“Take those words back.”

 

“I wouldn’t dare.”

 

Baz’s swallow comes out audible as he pulls himself up to a seated position, still  _ fully _ sat on Snow’s cock. “No, Simon. You don’t want this life.”

 

“It’s my free-will, isn’t it?”

 

_ It shouldn’t be. Not to choose to live here. _ “You won’t see any loved ones again, my dearest.  You won’t be able to see the night’s sky or the sun’s rays.”

 

Snow shrugs. “Doesn’t matter; you’re my loved one, after all.”

 

Baz grows more choked up, forcing himself to keep his composure. “You don’t mean that,” he exhales, breath shaking in the slightest.

 

The man’s eyes push open, scanning over the beast sitting atop him. For something so fearful, he seems awfully small with shut eyes and a trembling lip. His hand reaches up to hold his face, letting the demon’s cheek press further into his hand, dragging his thumb against the chilled skin. “I can promise you that it’s true.”

 

“Your friends, Simon. Your world, the lands you want to see and everything left unexplored—“

 

“Are nothing in comparison to having you forever.”

 

“It’s a fleeting fancy brought on by what we just—“

 

“I was sure of it on my third night here,” Snow cuts, voice a sharpened dagger in the line of thought. “I returned to my world and begged for something to let me end you, to cut my feelings away, but nothing answered.” He pulls his face back down, pressing cold lips to his own before cutting back. “I chose you under my own free-will, and I will again and again.”

 

Baz rests his forehead against Snow’s, mouth hanging open in the slightest as his eyes stay glued together in fear of shedding tears. “Then I must ask of you to decide not to  _ try _ to be here with me,” he utters, chest tugging. “If fate has it that you are here with me sooner rather than later, then I will be more than glad to have you in my company, but I beg of you to not determine your own fate.”

 

The mortal’s fingertips drag over his cheekbone, eyes studying his face. “I promise to not fix what’s to come of me, but I want you to know my standings in life, alright?” He lays his lips on the sharp curve where his fingers just stood, trailing back to the creature’s lips. “So long as my fate  _ here _ will be sealed.”

 

“It’s written in stone.” He meets Snow’s lips, staying locked to him for a while, not moving away until Snow makes a move to first. He pulls off of him, hands trailing Snow’s chest lovingly. “Do you need something? I can draw a bath.” Without an answer, he snaps his fingers and it’s done, the tub on the adjacent side of his quarters filled and steaming with floating fragrant petals. Baz smiles meekly, eager to please but not too eager to convince. “I can join…”

 

Snow eyes it up, barely even thinking before nodding. “I’d quite enjoy that.” He rises to his feet, stretching down his length and cracking the strained bones before sweeping up Baz’s hand and leading him over, lowering them into the bath. They sit and soak, silent and content. Baz lets Snow wash his hair, and vise-versa.

 

Snow’s given up doing most things for himself in the mortal world; Baz has soaps and water that smells like sage and roses. Up above, he has well water, and that’s all. Hell, some days he doesn’t eat, knowing Baz will happily feed him.

 

Security. That’s what Baz offers; security of warmth, food, shelter, and love. Security through sugary kisses that melt his insides and icicle skin that cools his burning cheeks.

 

Even as they swap lazy kisses before pulling themselves apart to leave the tub, Snow can’t seem to completely let go of the beast. He’s a safety blanket.

 

Wordlessly, they drift to the fireplace to lay together in front of it, Snow’s head resting against the unbeating chest of  _ his _ Baz as his eyes pull to a close. He doesn’t need to say it; Baz already knows he’s fading again. “Sleep tight, my dearest.”

 

Vague blues and a bird’s tweet. That’s the first thing Snow’s awoken to, the storm passed and the sky a pale, muted blue.

 

His typical day drags on, making stops to crops he’d left untouched for days to only be tended by the rain. He prepares to hunt, taking Penelope out into the woods and field nearby.

 

Indulgence is what Baz would call it. Soaking in the world as if it’s his own. Snow grins, chest swirling and mind somewhat stable as he tires himself with daily activities, unprepared for anything. Anything at all.

 

Unprepared for the stalking falcon swooping ahead, cawing twice before diving towards Snow. In a scramble, he flies to the ground backwards and tries to dig himself into the wet soil, only to have the bird upturn quickly and fly back.

 

Snow’s ears ring and his heart pounds, the shock hitting him in waves. A watch eagle. There’s a search party out for him that must’ve been waiting for the storm to pass, and now they’ve caught wind of him. It’s a day now, if he’s lucky, before they find his village and take him home empty handed and cursed to a cold life with those who have warm skin and veins pumping with control.

 

With Penelope aside him, he sprints back to camp empty handed and gut churning.

 

He tries to retire to bed early, but his body does not let him sleep. The sun’s still shining in cursed rays and his mind is too quick with anxieties and desperation for infinite earthly solitude and underworldly companionship.

 

_ Return _ , Snow craves, aching for comfort,  _ return, return, return. Turn me back to the land that I seek and let me hold my creature once more before I’m cursed to a land no-good. _

 

Tighten, restrict. Tighten, restrict. His breaths are shallow and rapid, chest clenched and lungs speeding up to his mind. Tighten, restrict. Tighten, restrict.

 

Cycling and cycling before his vision goes dark.

 

He gets a flash of Baz, who perks at the life coming to against him. “You’re back early,” he cautions, eyebrows knit in concern. Snow’s face is wild, chest still racing and sweat pouring. He gasps in the dank air of Baz’s world a few times before fading back, his  _ human _ world spinning around him.

 

He must’ve passed out. Not much longer than a handful of minutes seem to have passed, though; the sky was near falling when he slipped away, and now it stands as a dusk.

 

Snow closes his eyes again once he gets a peek outside. Baz is going to go mad with worry, to say the least, and he can’t say it’s for no reason either. After all, Snow just showed up unexpectedly and left almost as quickly as he came.

 

He barely manages to drag himself out of bed, halfheartedly stewing a few crops and consuming them quickly, head against the wall and sitting taut on his bed. His eyes press closed, trying to picture how easy it could be to make Baz’s world a permanent home. How beautiful it’d be.

 

Eventually, his body is kind enough to let him go, snapping back into the demon’s realm, where a hand rubs his chest with unbridled anxiety. The creature’s nails drag against his skin, little red lines marking unconsciously against him. He startles upon Snow’s wake, a breath letting out as he throws both arms around the man and hugs him close. “You’re never allowed to scare me like that again,” he threatens, trying to sound fearful, yet he’s clearly on the brink of tears. “You left so soon, I was afraid there was an attack on your village and—“

 

“I’m fine, dearest,” Snow breathes, drawing him closer and breathing in the flowery scents of Baz’s neck and hair. “For tonight, for now, I’m fine.”

 

The demon stiffens. “Tonight?” he says urgently, a bewildered look upon his face as he pulls back. “What is tomorrow? What’s to happen?”

 

“They’re coming back. They’ve come to bring me home,” he spills, unable to even attempt to lie to Baz. He’s pathetic either way. “They’re coming so quickly, Baz. I… I’ll need to flee, I’ll…” He trails, swallowing his words and drawing his eyes up to Baz’s. “Come with me. Flee. Turn to your human form and run with me.”

 

Baz sits, stunned as his eyes study his human. “Simon, that’s not the best…”

 

“ _ Please? _ ” He pleads, hands flying to Baz’s face and stroking his cheeks.

 

The creature melts. He’s weak to that (that and everything else about Snow). “Simon, my dearest, you won’t understand.”

 

“Won’t understand that we’ll have the rest of my life to explore? You can take me  _ away _ Baz, if only we just run. Take your human form and come with me.”

 

“It’s hurt, Snow,” he sputters. “It’s—I’m hurt. I’m too weak.”

 

Snow’s excitement falters, face dropping and gut clenching. “What?” he mutters.  _ No, no he must be lying. _

 

“In the last feed, in the town you’re staying. One man gave quite a fight, which allowed for others to swarm and… I hadn’t originally intended on drying out a town, but after they tried to attack me, I expelled the last of my energy ending all in the confines of the village. I… I’m weakened, Snow. I can’t even leave my land without pain in every step. It’ll take at least a year to build strength to even hunt again.” Baz lets every word sting into Snow, little needle-pricks penetrating Snow’s soft, human skin. “I barely have enough power to fight in this realm. If you were to attack me the first night, as you had planned, I would have had no defense. Your blade wouldn’t have skid off me, and I couldn’t strike back. My head would loll off with ease, and you would have left a hero as you wished to be. It’s a mystery why you listened while I lied.”

 

“Baz…” Snow drags, searching for words as his eyes flicker over the demon’s face, searching for answers. He’s always looking for answers in places where he cannot find them. “Baz don’t… No. Tell me this is just a quip. Tell me you’re alright.”

 

He laughs sadly. “I won’t dare lie to you now,” he lets out, words stumbling out in a soft hum. “I cannot leave this land. You’ll have to go, my dearest, and wait. I’ll still be here in your slumber, though. I’ll come for you.”

 

“No… no…”

 

Baz swallows. “I’ll come for you, my dear. I’ll show myself in another village and let word spread. Say you’re off to end me, and then we run. We’ll run as far as our legs can take us, and we’ll see what the world has to offer to Simon Snow…”

 

“No, Baz. I can’t possibly wait.”

 

His heart sinks. “You don’t have a choice.”

 

Shards of ice, stabbing through every pore in Snow’s skin. “I…”

 

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes. “I am. I am sorry. I beg of you to not be upset; it’ll be okay, we must wait.”

 

Snow closes his eyes, the weight of the worlds pressing against them. Lie. Choke out a lie. “Okay,” he utters. “Okay, yes. I’ll wait.” He feels heavy lips plant around his face, nearly urgent in nature with so many of them.

 

“Simon?” Baz utters, lips pressing under the curve of Snow’s jaw as the man nods, humming out a reply. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

 

“And what is that?” Snow’s voice sounds all too distant but inside Baz’s ear all at once. He presses a single, fleeting kiss to his adam’s apple before continuing to kiss down.

 

“That you love me.”

 

A hand smooths over the back of Baz’s head slowly, pushing down his hair and resting against the nape of his neck as fingers push the locks away, holding on gently. “I love you, Baz.”

 

“Full name now?”

 

A chuckle comes out below the demon’s mouth, rattling against him. A weak smile grows on the man’s lips. “Is my way not good enough for you?” Snow breathes.

 

Baz shakes his head. “I want it to be official.”

 

The man’s hand slides down against his back, feeling each notch of his spine. “I love you, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

 

Baz’s lips travel to Snow’s clavicle, pressing full kisses to each dip and bend before kissing the center of his chest, feeling the rhythmic beating of the mortal’s heart below his mouth. “I love you too, Simon Snow,” he whispers, voice ghostly quiet. As if it’s a secret for just the two of them to share. As if someone else could hear.

 

His lips keep moving, trickling downward and pressing to Snow’s hip. A tug at his hair stops him in his tracks, causing his head to lift.

 

Snow shakes his head a little, fingers carding through Baz’s hair. “I…” he breathes, but Baz is a step ahead of him, already sat up and moving to kiss his cheek briefly.

 

“I understand.” He hovers for a second above Snow’s lips before he mortal bumps up to meet them. Snow breaks first, head resting back and pulling the creature atop of him, holding him there with arms locked around his waist.

 

Baz sits upright, hair falling in his face and shadowed by the fire beside them. His hand is caught by Snow’s and brought to the man’s lips, who kisses his knuckles lovingly. His chest squeezes. “Don’t you worry what you’re missing?” He asks, free hand resting back on Snow’s thigh to hold himself up. He lets himself slouch. “The whole… matrimonious ceremony and having offspring to carry your legacy. Isn’t that the entire mortal dream?”

 

“Hasn’t always been mine,” Snow mumbles back, watching the creature’s pitch black fingers uncurl as he leans up, pressing kisses to the pads of his fingertips and scrunching his nose to the gentle brush of his claw.

 

“What was?”

 

“Nothing.” It came out a little more bitter than Snow had meant. “I… I never had a ‘dream’.” He pauses for a moment, head turning to watch the fire. “Well, I do, but it’s not a ‘life dream’. It’s… I want to know my family. I was abandoned at a nunnery to be cared for with the other orphans. My true parents were never found, and the closest I’ve ever come to a parent figure was The Mage, who came for me when I was 11. He told me  _ I _ could save the lands; that  _ I _ was destined to.” Snow’s head turns, eye’s meeting Baz’s. He notices that his eyes are leaking, just a tad. He smiles through it. “I wasn’t, I suppose.” His eyes flutter shut as Baz reaches his hands down, wiping the tears off his cheeks. “I fell in love, didn’t I? I guess that’s more important.”

 

“Sappy,” Baz utters, watching Snow break into a grin as he breaks into his own, giggling a little. He lets Snow draw his hands back in, holding both of them as they rest against Baz’s thighs. “I’ll be your family.” Soft. So soft. For sharp horns and wicked nails, the demon’s voice is painfully soft.

 

Snow just nods wisely, eyes closing. He doesn’t wish to sleep. “Family.”

 

Their hands squeeze together, the fitting silence between them not choking them out, but rather settling like dust over their bodies. Stone statues set into time. The lover’s woes.

 

Snow listens to the fire crackle for what feels like an hour, hearing it fade and opening his eyes to his world.

 

They’re not too far now. He doesn’t need to hear or see them to know.

 

Slowly, he drags himself up, pulling on his armor once more (did he grow weaker? It doesn’t seem to fit as snugly as it had in the past). His sword rattles against his side, and he touches his collar. He recalls the cross.

 

They’ll surely notice, but it won’t matter. He’ll be gone soon enough either way.

 

Hanging. Either by self or by a jury; both ways will end him where he wants to be. One’s just more guaranteed.

 

He collects his necessary belongings and gets Penelope to follow, trying to coax Agatha but she wanders off on her own, letting Snow give her one last pet before he goes his separate way into the forest.

 

It isn’t long before he hears the march of footsteps and the glisten of metal between trees. His tracks stop, chin tilting as he calls forward. “A party of many seems to be seeking someone. Is that being Simon Snow?” His voice, it seems, carries far enough, but sounds strange to the travelers.

 

“Why, yes. Who comes forth?”

 

“’Tis I, Simon Snow.”

 

A soldier finds him, beckoning the others to join before staring in shock. “Good God, man, have you changed so much since last seen upon the castle’s land?”

 

A slight blush creeps upon Snow’s cheeks as he stands himself up straighter. “Solitude has not been kind. I did not give you orders to stare, soldier.”

 

A slight startled nod as his eyes downcast. “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.” A collective shift in eyes spreads, the five soldiers taking glances away from Snow’s face. “You… do not carry the head of the beast, Sir.”

 

“I promise, I have him bested,” he lies, hands numbing and stomach churning. “He does not come out of the shadows easily, but I shall wait. It seems he’s not hungry yet, but we’ll send guards to all local towns to keep a closer watch. We’ll attack first next time, not catch later. Poor choice upon the Mage’s behalf.”

 

“Yes, of course, Sir, of course.” Utters of The Mage’s name spread briefly before silence. “We must venture back to the castle. Everyone is awaiting your return.”

 

Snow lifts his chin more, eyes downcasted upon the soldiers. “So be it.”

 

They venture back outside of the woodland, where their horses are waiting them. Snow climbs upon one with ease, telling the soldiers shortly that the dog follows, and that’s an order. They ride comfortably, easing into the day and a half journey by horse.

 

Snow’s eyes drift as the group leads him further and further away from his campsite, staring at his bleak surroundings. Grey. Still grey. So,  _ so  _ grey. He thinks back to the flowering town center, the purples and blues bursting to life. He never got to give them one last goodbye.

 

On his own will, he draws his mind to a blank, spacing himself out far away, as far away as he can push his mind and body without holding his breath and counting the seconds until he’s passed out (again).

 

He doesn’t snap out of his cloud until he hears the snaps of other reins and he quickly jerks his horse to a stop.

 

It’s newly dark out, the sun barely set but coming to a full day’s end.

 

The soldiers are sliding down and setting camp while Snow stares at the ground below his perch. His brain slows and tumbles, trying not to focus in his moment. He’ll be asleep soon enough, he reminds himself, and shakily slides off his horse. He throws glances around his world, mind not quite right. He’s off somewhere, head in the clouds and sight not seeming to focus quite right. He’s not exhausted, but he’s numbed.  _ The world isn’t real _ , his brain taunts as his feet drag him forward. Robotically, Snow sets up camp for himself and rests back, Penelope curling up to his side. He mindlessly pets her, staring at the stars without seeing a single one of them.

 

_ You’re not real, Simon Snow. You’re basically dead already. Let it go. _

 

Without eating or even speaking another word, Snow drifts asleep surrounded by the words screamed in his hauntingly loud thoughts.

 

_ Let it go. _

 

He’s awoken by the familiar crackling of the fireplace echoing through the rocky underworldly walls.

 

Baz is sitting up beside him, eyes focused clearly on the fire in front of him, dancing in bursts and pops. He’s unmoving, hands folded over each other in the confines of his cross-legged lap. Snow watches as the curvature of Baz’s back bends upward in the slightest with his breath, then slowly lowers. It’d be serene if Snow didn’t feel so heartbroken by the distance. He goes to open his mouth, but his words don’t seem to work, so he nudges the demon’s knee with his own. His head jerks downward to Snow’s leg, a hand moving to rest against it before his head turns back to see him. A smile grows.

 

It’s the closest thing to home that Snow has now.

 

Without a word, he leans down and presses their lips together. Snow’s hand rests against the slope of Baz’s jaw, trying to hold onto the feeling of him. They linger comfortably, neither in a rush to break apart.

 

When Snow finally lets back for air, he settles against the plush rug, fingertip tracing the steep angles of the demon’s cheekbone. “What do you do while I’m gone?” he whispers privately, a soft exhale releasing as Baz’s forehead rests against his own.

 

“I wait for you to return.”

 

A smile pushes through the heaviness in Snow’s face. “You don’t need to give such a gentle answer. I’m not afraid of the truth.”

 

Baz softly chuckles, eyes closing as the mortal’s fingertip swipes gently over his eyelid. “I speak only of the truth.” He licks his lips, hand resting on Snow’s chest comfortably. “My time passes faster than yours, if I wish for it to. When I’m with you, I slow it to your pace, but as you’re asleep in my realm and awake in your own, I quicken my world. At times, I’ll do something of mundanity, such as play my violin or tend to the fires. Other than that, I rest my body and my powers.”

 

Snow nods slowly, letting his free hand roam down and rest against the hip of his partner, tracing circles into his skin. “What happens to my body?”

 

“It stays if you wish it to stay.”

 

“I… never outwardly expressed where I want my body to go as I fall asleep.”

 

The creature hums, shrugging as Snow typically would. “Conscious decisions are equally as valued as unconscious. You disappeared the first few nights, only to reappear elsewhere before arriving to my living quarters. After you started falling asleep and waking up at various points, your body began staying there until you woke again.”

 

Snow nods. He doesn’t express it, but he adds it to his mental list; reasons why death won’t be so terrible (why he so clearly prefers to live with Baz than live any other life at all). As if he needed reasons. As if he wouldn’t choose life with Baz in a heartbeat without worry of further consequences.

 

But now’s not the time to mention it to him; it’s Snow’s free-will to turn a blind cheek to the living, after all. Now, he enjoys his time as it’s fleeting. “Baz?”

 

“Yes, love?”

 

“Come closer and keep kissing me.”

 

He doesn’t have to be asked twice.

 

They shift together, Snow rolling on top of Baz eventually as he trails kiss after kiss around the demon’s face. A little nudge to his ankles and Baz spreads his legs wide enough to let knees settle between his thighs. At the command, Baz lifts his hips up and lets the warrior’s hands grip them, pulling them up to his own.

 

He wants him. He wants all of him. He wants him to have him; he wants him to stay.

 

He won’t tell him. He won’t  _ dare _ ever tell him that he wants him to stay, that he could find a way to bring his body with him, because he’s not sure he’ll ever leave, and if so, if he’ll still age.

 

He doesn’t want him temporarily; he wants him forever.

 

He wants  _ this _ forever.

 

As Baz’s head rests back, eyes squeezing shut and breath coming out in gasps with Snow’s hand wrapped around his cock, he tries to figure out ways to keep Snow safe and  _ his _ forever.

 

“Simon—“ he whines, hips bucking up into his hand.

 

“Shh-shshsh,” Snow whispers, gently pressing a finger to Baz’s lips before gripping both sides of his hips and holding him steady. “What do you want, my love?”

 

He wants him to stay. “Have me,” he moans, trying to press further towards him. Snow’s grip is stabilizing.  _ Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me again tonight, please. I can’t keep letting you go. _ “Take me to the bed and take  _ me _ .”

 

A quick nod confirms it before he lets Baz wriggle out of his hands as they both scramble to the bed, a blur of hands grabbing oils and bodies finding the right positions again. Baz sprawls back, legs pressed apart and hands finding their way to Snow’s back, gently clawing up his skin as he feels warm fingers press into him, opening him and teasing him so slowly, so  _ painfully _ slow that if feels like time itself has slowed. Suddenly, the pressing urgency that was so prevalent just moments before is fleeting, being replaced with the reality of the situation at hand.

 

Suddenly, they’re both trying to slow down time.

 

Their mouths collide, inseparable even as the fingers slide out and get replaced with Snow’s cock, pressing in hot and slicked. Baz groans against him but doesn’t dare let go, fingers raking through Snow’s hair and legs wrapping around his tawny waist, urging him closer, urging him to fill him more.  _ Stay. Stay. Don’t let go. Don’t ever, ever let go. _

 

They rock in unison, bodies melding together in their own tight space, their own constricted walls of realities.

 

Baz doesn’t last long. He comes with a strained moan, rocking his body up against the mortal’s as he feels the continuing thrusts. He feels him start to pull away, but he digs his claws slightly into Snow’s back to urge him to continue. He does. It’s not long until the man follows, strained muscles weakening and relaxing atop of Baz as they both melt into the bed. Mouths part, eyes open, and brains race yet don’t manage to work out words beyond the first three coming to mind.

 

“I love you,” they whisper in unison, trying to find each other in their faces, in their eyes. Lost, gone.

 

Scared. They’re both so,  _ so _ scared. Fear clutters their mind and sends shockwaves down to their fingertips, each party gripping hold of the other to try to get a sense of grounding.

 

Of course it does nothing. It always does nothing, but it’s nice to pretend.

 

It’s nice to calm down with at least some sanity, relaxing up against your lover and trading scared, careful kisses to their lips and cheeks before managing to talk again, trading somewhat distant words of tomorrows; promises for where their unknown future will take them. What Greece looks like; what it’s like in a land that never snows. Their conversation drifts and Snow’s stomach grumbles. Baz tuts and snaps his fingers for a plate of food, having Snow tuck into it without even allowing for an excuse.

 

He watches, chest cavity heavily holding a ghost pulse that drags down with each and every one of the man’s movements. He’s not safe out there, he’s not taken care of. He would be here. His selfish mind clutters, memorizing every movement the mortal makes as he prepares for his nightly departure. This is the worst part of their time together; letting him go.

 

Snow feels it too; weakening limbs and hardly open eyes. He’s falling back again, and staying still isn’t an option.

 

One more night, he tells himself. Once at the castle, once comfortably set, he’ll make his decision.

 

One more night.

 

He barely hears Baz’s nightly send-off of love as he fills back into his realm’s body, feeling as numb as the day before.

 

Undead. Snow feels undead in his own world. He’s not quite gone, but he’s definitely not there either; dragging his body around with him feels awfully like death, but his mind aches too much to be gone. Therefore, a middle state.

 

Perhaps the true purgatory is life on earth.

 

If someone were to tell Snow that life in between is simply the act of existing, it would sound more like a diagnosis than a statement.

 

Simon Snow has a bad case of Life, and the cure is grim.

 

As he takes the ride back, he reminds himself of his choices, of his choice ahead. Free-will should be selfish, shouldn’t it be? To choose for himself is to choose for himself alone.

 

Shouldn’t it be?

 

He spins around the question, getting lost within his own one-track mind as he’s brought to a halt.

 

The castle. The lands he once belonged to, the lands he believed to be home. The land that’s greeting him seemingly with open arms and grand cheers of the arrival and safe returns. People flock to gaze at him ride.

 

What was before a grand gesture and heartwarming to see now feels empty and mocking. Do they know they cheer for a monster?

 

They cheer so loudly for a man who kills, and boo for a creature who survives. How cruel a mind.

 

A mind that travels upwards in social status, especially to those who greet him in his castle with warm welcomes and grand smiles, crying “He’s back!”

 

The Mage welcomes him with a nod, seeming displeased with his empty-handedness, as expected, but wordless at the moment of the return. Agatha gives a nod, yet seeming nearly as empty as Snow. Truthfully, she wished he would not bring upon a return and would then give her freedom to live without such a confining life, wed to warrior whose life is grander than a life she wishes to have.

 

Without many words, Snow’s whisked back off, tutted over by caretakers. Maids, trainers, waiters, all the like there to serve and build him. All including Penny, whose worried eyes catch Snow’s and give him that fleeting feeling of life.  _ She _ cares.

 

She cares enough that after the ceremonious feast of his return, she whisks him off to the library and locks them inside, her eyes traveling over him as she pats him down. “What in the  _ world _ has happened to you, Simon? You’re no longer yourself!”

 

Snow barely manages to keep himself alert and standing, looking down at her in pity. She’ll miss him, probably. She’ll get over it in time, but it’ll hurt her. Such a shame. “You won’t believe me if I tell you,” he mumbles, finding a seat in the largest armchair he can find. “ _ I _ barely believed it to be true.”

 

“Well now you must tell me, if it’ll pull you out of this…” She stares down at him, hands on the ratty workers cloths at her hips. “Not Simon Snow before me.”

 

Snow’s eyes follow her movements, unconsciously biting his lip and grabbing his hair. He can’t lie to Penny. “I fell in love with the demon.”

 

She blinks, a little taken back but not as startled as most would be. “So… you did make contact with him?”

 

“That’s not—is that what you’ve gotten out of that? I’m… Inseparable from,” he drops his voice quieter, “ _ him _ .”

 

“Oh  _ Simon _ , there are more issues than the demon being male and more of him being a  _ demon _ and you being able to make contact. That’s… brilliant…”

 

“Thank you for turning my internal anguish into somewhat of a study.”

 

Penelope shoots him a look, pausing her line of thought before taking a seat, folding her skirt neatly in front of her. “What was it like, talking to a demon? Knowing he’s a killer--”

 

“ _ I’m _ a killer. He hunts to survive.”

 

“That doesn’t mean they’re not dead.”

 

“It doesn’t make what I do any better.”

 

Penny swallows the rock in her throat. “I hate you being right.”

 

“It’s rare, give me my moments.”

 

“Rarer and rarer.” They smile at each other genuinely, for the first time in a while. “You’re looking skinny. Were you eating properly? What did you do all that time?”

 

He shrugs, thinking back to his crops again. They’ll die without him. “I took care of myself, enough.” His eyes drift over his own body. Less muscular, sure, but not particularly thinned? “I didn’t practice anything there. Barely lifted a sword, except for hunting.”

 

Penny crosses her arms over her chest, eyeing him up. “If you say so…” she utters, opening her mouth to say something else but being startled but voices outside the door. She mumbles something under her breath and whisks away to look like she’s cleaning as Snow scrambles to grab a scroll to ‘study’.

 

The now closer voices push open the door, The Mage in the front. He casts his gaze between the two, letting out a disgruntled huff before nodding towards Penelope. “You, girl. Leave.”

 

She nods, quickly scuttling off and sending Snow one last remorseful glance before leaving.

 

The Mage takes a seat, snapping to have the doors close. The soldiers— _ his soldiers _ —follow and stand around him, as if he’d need protection in such a place. This is not irregular, though, just seemingly a regular overly dramatised sense of self-preservation. “So,” the Mage says, sitting upright. Even when he sits, he sits rigidly, like his body only knows one way to be and that’s stiff. “You didn’t bring back the demon head. And why is that? You choose to set the lands up to the fate of a  _ monster _ ?”

 

Unintentionally, Snow’s hands curl into tight fists, crumpling the parchment and nearly tearing holes. Upon realisation, he stuffs it aside in shame, trying to shake his anger. Going off. He’s being tempted to go off.  “I hadn’t… it wasn’t intentional,” he barely manages flatly as his eyes drift to meet The Mage’s. “It wasn’t intentional. It—he didn’t show. I had camped for long enough, and contact was futile.”

 

“A weak answer for a weak warrior.” The Mage’s voice is ice cold and unforgiving. So icy that Snow winces. “The lands believed in you, they look up to you. If you can’t do it, then we must find someone who can.”

 

“ _ No _ . I can.”  _ Lies. _ “We must wait until he resurfaces. We’ll attack then.  _ I’ll attack _ .”  _ Lies. Lies after lies. _ “I must.”

 

The Mage’s blank stare rests on Snow’s frantic face for an extended pause, unmoving and uncaring. Eventually, his nose upturns, bitterly downcast to Snow. “The Bloodtaker must be slayed. Any other excuse is of no use. By next show, he shall be gone.”

 

“Yes, sir.”  _ He’ll be dead first. _

 

A brisk nod and the crowd empties the room, leaving Snow to sink further into the armchair. Let him melt away, become the tanned leather of the seat he lies on.

 

A maid interrupts soon after, clearing her throat. “Sir, Snow. Your bedchambers await.”

 

He weakly pulls himself to a stand, purely motivated by the promise of sleep. Slow, heavy steps bring him to the tip of the tower, his lone room left untouched. The windows hang open, curtains billowing in thick puffs and dimming the glowing moon hanging so close to his mind.

 

Numbly, he strips away to his skin, laying bare in his bed under the covers of the world. Slowly, the blue-moonlit shadows drip away into an inky blackness, eyes reopening when he’s finally back in Baz’s arms.

 

He’s as he was left, curled up to the demon’s side. When he comes to, he focuses on the feeling of Baz’s hand dragging through his messed curls, breaking knots apart and dragging claw-tips delicately over his soft scalp. Snow grins, feeling his energy perk in the slightest.

 

His face shoots up, starting to shower Baz’s neck with kisses. This startles the creature, but not enough to stop him from playing with his hair.

 

“Welcome back, my love,” Baz laughs, tipping his head back further to allow Snow to attack the exposed skin. He tries to relax into it, but he laughs again when Snow nibbles at his earlobe. “Snow, I’m… Simon, dear, a little enthusiastic, aren’t you?”

 

Snow shrugs, kissing down the length of his body eagerly and glancing up in increments. He keeps going as Baz’s hand finds its way into his hair, but stops short of his navel after the curls are given a short tug. He glances up, tongue out and cheeks pink.

 

“You don’t… something’s wrong.”

 

“Hm? What? Nothing’s wrong—“

 

“Snow,” he says pointedly. “Stop.”

 

He sits up in a flash, narrowing his eyes and shifting away from Baz. “Am I not allowed to touch you now?”

 

“That’s not—Snow you’re acting strange.”

 

“Am I, Baz?”

 

“Yes,” the creature says, voice dropping to a much softer tone. “You are. You know you are; I’m not going to be mad if you just speak to me.”

 

Snow narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to spit back a rebuttal, to use his limited lasting energy to try to feel something, but the twitch in his knit eyebrows and the swirling in his gut kicks him while he’s down and breaks the unsteady structure. He crumbles onto Baz’s lap for wordless comfort, just curling into him and closing his eyes. An unsteady hand brushes his hair back as he squeezes closer. “I didn’t choose what to have for dinner,” he whispers, eyes squeezed shut.

 

“I… I don’t quite know what to…”

 

“I didn’t choose anything. I’ll be refitted for clothes in the morning, and my hair will be trimmed to their standards. My training begins, my visitors will arrive in the coming days. It’s not my decision to make.”

 

“Simon—“

 

“I need leave,” he says quietly. “I need to slip away somehow.” He eyes travel to find Baz’s, desperately clinging onto him as if he’s the only thing left to hold. “It’s already too much. I need to find a way out, whether  _ anybody _ else likes it or not.”

 

The words sort of lay in the air, hanging above them in a cloud of uncertainty. To Baz, he’s not quite sure of what Snow’s thinking. For Snow, he isn’t quite sure he wants Baz to understand. Not yet, at least. He’ll try to stop him if he does, and it’ll only hurt the both of them to argue.

 

“Like I said,” Snow murmurs, closing his eyes again as he sighs. “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing of your control.”

 

“It’s not out of my control. You can always talk. I can always listen.  _ I’m _ your confidant.”

 

_ Not entirely. Not yet. _ “I know, my love.” Snow takes hold of Baz’s hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles. “I know.” His eyes flutter back up to Baz’s. “Can we stop talking about this?”

 

“If you promise to not go erratic again tonight.”

 

A cheeky grin. “No promises.”

 

Baz can’t help but grin and tut, leaning down to kiss him.  _ If I kiss him enough, he’ll be sane again. He’ll be safe again.  _ He presses Snow against the bed slightly, hands finding hands and holding them tighter and tighter, trying to squeeze away Snow’s anxieties and negativity.

 

It doesn’t work, but it’s always worth a shot.

 

Pointless kissing and indulgence in the moment lasts for hours, only really stopping because of Snow’s growing worries. “I’m going to be awoken soon,” he mutters, letting Baz kiss at his neck and giving one of his horns a tug. “Don’t leave any marks; they show up when I’m awake.”

 

Baz licks his lips, smiling a little. “I’ll give them where nobody will see them, then?”

 

“Mm. As absolutely tempting as that sounds, I’m dressed entirely by maids. They see it all.”

 

“Hm. Spoils the fun,” the demon breathes as he kisses more and more, grounding himself against the man before snapping himself back and rubbing the man’s cheek lovingly. “Try to wake up now, then?”

 

Snow shrugs.

 

“Try?” He kisses him encouragingly. “I swear, I’ll see you again tomorrow night, and the night after. No need to drag your stay if it’s only going to cut short.”

 

Snow sighs, a tad over dramatic, but nods. “If it must be done. Come closer then, love?” His hands wrap around Baz’s upper arms, tugging down until the creature lays atop of him comfortably. “I love you. Don’t forget.”

 

A little stricken by his remarks, Baz lifts his head up to meet Snow’s comments with questions, but only finds Snow fast asleep, as if he’d been pulled awake anyway.

 

And he was. Snow’s rattled awake by a young servant, urging him out of bed. “It’s sunrise, sir. Best dress for breakfast.”  _ Best dress for the day. The last day. _

 

If one knew they were dressing for their last day, it’d be best to be of their own choice. Snow, though, being a man of his land and  _ not _ of himself, is dressed by the piling in servants, stressing over the newly obscured tailoring, pulling in his sleeves and waist with care as Snow stands. A show-pony for no-one.

 

And off he goes, whisked around the castle. A discomforting breakfast  bound by silence in a grand hall with only two people—the Mage and himself—eating at separate sides. Snow takes an unusually long time to eat, careful not to stuff himself. When facing last meals, it’s best to savor them.

 

His day continues. Training, lessons, lunch, more training, tea, meeting with visitors, supper, lessons, dinner, and then he’s finally escorted back to his chambers, locked away at the top of the castle in a lone room, with lone stone walls and a large, flowing window.

 

He lights a candle for himself, feeling his chest flutter as he takes his time to decide how  _ exactly _ he wishes to end his life. While hanging seemed best at first, it now seems too simple. Poison is overplayed, and jumping from the window seems only fit for drama and to pull at people’s emotions is not his end-all goal.

 

Stabbing, then. Right through the chest with his own sword; the sword he’d been expected to slay Baz with. Only seems proper to end himself with such a fluid motion, leaving his own blood spilt.  _ There they’ll have it _ , he thinks,  _ a slayed monster. _

 

Fluidly, he pulls out the stolen scroll from his jacket and takes a seat at his desk, finding his feather and dipping it into the inkwell. A pause.

 

To admit a lover is too grand, too much. To admit defeat is too holy.

 

To admit disobedience in intentions to continue, then that is a death most punishable to fit one who wishes to stay with a demon.

 

Therefore he crafts a note, continuing on about his will to no longer do as he’s told; that this is his final act of free-will, and it’s unstoppable, especially as cruel fate sees it that he ends his life at the tip of his own blade.

 

He flourishes his signature, letting the pen rest over the open parchment as he takes seat on his bed. Sword, sword, where is his… aha. Sword in hand. Sword over heart. Sword nudging at his skin, arms shaking and breath collapsing in.

 

For Baz. For freedom. For himself.

 

A breath in. Five. Four. Three. Two—

 

Clamor strikes as his door topples in, a lanky man of similar appearance to Baz slams in, limping quite aggressively and crying for Snow to stop.

 

No, not alike to Baz. It  _ is _ Baz, struggling in his human form, having appeared in the castle’s maid’s closet, unknowing as to where Snow would be. Of course,  _ of course _ he figured Snow’s plan, after a little thinking. His only fear grew to be that he’d be too late, that his physical form would crumble before he could reach his love.

 

That the guards now thundering up the stairs could catch him before he could catch Snow himself.

 

Recognisable. So recognisable as the deathly figure he is. A curse to bring that he tries to save Snow’s life and most likely have his own ended.

 

“Snow!” he cries, desperately throwing himself at the man and slapping the sword from his hand. It leaves a good cut across the skin of his palm, but the bleeding doesn’t bother him much as he tries to fight his lover away from the weapon. “No, stop!”

 

“Baz, please!” Snow chokes. “No, please! I need to!”

 

“Simon!” he shouts, a sob bubbling in his throat as he hears the thundering grow louder. The guards pour in through the open door, immediately charging at the still weak man (creature?) who’d appeared.

 

Snow sees them first, his heart flooding with panic and acting as so with it, throwing Baz onto the ground beside his bed and standing over him, locking himself between him and the guards.

 

They keep charging, Snow’s sword halfway across the room and long discarded.

 

His eyes shut, his body ready to open, ready to bleed, ready to let go for Baz, to protect Baz, even if for the briefest of time.

 

And in a moment of equal panic, Baz’s hands shoot to Snow’s back and  _ push _ , pushing his powers, pushing what’s left of him through and begging,  _ begging _ it’ll work.

 

Something does.

 

Something that startles the guards, a clamor of metal dropping and footsteps shuffling to flee as the room grows fire-hot and bright red, a bursting nova in the tower. It burns Baz’s face, it pierces through Snow’s skin and blasts the rock around them away as if he’d combusted.

 

There stands snow, blood red and leathery wings sprouted out of his back and a long, matching tail that could spark freight into any child’s life brought out right before him. His eyes glow briefly, his hair singed and hands trembling as he desperately throws himself in every directly, looking for Baz and begging,  _ pleading _ that he hadn’t hurt him. He finds him directly behind him, at his feet and feebly crumbled forward into a ball. His breath is shallow, his eyes don’t open, blood pouring out of little nicks along his body caused by rubble and the sheer blast.

 

Panic. That’s all Snow has, a panicked grab of Baz’s limp body and holding him to his own, finding him lighter than in the other realm (or stronger in his own?) and just…  _ willing _ himself away, mindlessly working his wings to fly them off, to fly them away. Faster and faster, they pick up speed, and they soar off until Snow can’t carry their weights anymore, dropping down steadily to a steep ravine and softening their fall onto a grassier patch.

 

His breath comes out as gasps as he desperately tries to press air into the body of the creature, teardrops rolling down his dirtied cheeks and hitting the hair of the man below him. “Live, damn you, live,” he sobs, hands growing weaker with each pump before curling to his chest, listening to his shallow breathing and clinging to the figure.

 

For the first time in a long time, he sleeps without any dreams.

 

At first, when he wakes, he feels wronged; like he’s missing something.

 

Then the human-like figure below him shifts and groans below him, breathing more evenly now, but still clearly not fully conscious, but still,  _ still _ so,  _ so _ alive.

 

“Baz,” he urges, voice cracking with the little shake he gives to the man. “Baz, please. We’re safe now.” No movement. “Baz? Baz please…” His breathing picks up a little as he turns, half opening his eyes before closing them again.

 

Snow’s eyes drift around him, mind flooding with uncertainty. He needs something; he needs something to eat, or to drink, something needed for humans, something… his eyes drift to the stream trickling nearby before it hits him, sending him flying to his feet to collect a handful of the water, rushing it back to his lover. “Drink,” he urges, pushing his wet fingertips to Baz’s lips and forcing the water into his mouth. He moves to sit him up, studying him and feeling his cheeks, his hair, his face and his human,  _ human _ hands as he mutters urgent pleas for him to wake.

 

Moments pass before the raspy breathing grows more audible, mouth lolling open itself and followed minutes later by the flutter of opening eyes, staring up and out into space, unfocused with the first few blinks before he starts to search. Snow feels Baz’s body tense as he watches the man look around, then finally lay eyes on him, relaxing and breathing evenly at last.

 

His tongue flickers out to his lips before trying to squeeze out a word, but nothing comes but an extended breath.

 

Snow silences him with a butterfly-soft kiss, wet cheeks and dripping eyelashes pressing down to the richer skin below him.

 

In such light, Snow’s the creature and Baz is the human, trying to reach to hold onto the man with wings and a tail.

 

Minutes pass where Baz regains composure, Snow cradling him and exploring his weakened body. It takes time before Baz can manage words again, and even then, barely speaking above a whisper. “I don’t have long in this form,” he rasps. “I’ll be back to how I was before.”

 

A relieved sob escapes Snow’s mouth as he presses a kiss to the man’s forehead. “I don’t care. I don’t care about formalities and how I see you, we’re  _ free _ now.”

 

Baz’s eyes shut, lungs struggling to breathe the same sweet air of Snow’s land as he manages out smile. The sun shines brighter on his face, warming his cheeks and filtering in bright yellows and warm rays, bringing so much colour to the grassy greens and blue,  _ blue _ sky. “You’re right. We are free.”

**Author's Note:**

> to close this off, i want to just say... this started as a meme, and it grew into this whole story. i'm really proud of this baby, and i hope you enjoyed it as much as i do!


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